Gods and Arias
by thedandersen
Summary: While many have forgotten about the first Cylon war during the armistice, the colonial fleet still stands guard. For Commander Scott Mason and the crew of the Battlestar Aria, their greatest challenge yet comes from an unexpected source. AU leading up to the events of the miniseries/author's original characters/some series characters
1. Chapter 1

NOTE:

Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

This is my first go at a fic, we'll see where that winds up. I hope you'll have as much fun reading as I did writing.

1.

Shift work meant exactly what it was supposed to in the humble opinion of Junior Helmsman Ensign Matthew Carver's mind. People work shifts, and when it's time to come onto your shift, you arrive on time. Or early, even. That would just be displaying some common courtesy. But to arrive late should be considered a trespass punishable by torture or something similar, he thought. Carver rubbed the side of his face – the growth of stubble crackling against his hand. He had, in fact, arrived early – at 1745 hours Caprica Mean Time to assume his position at the helm of this particular Battlestar. As a courtesy.

Carver glanced at the clock – it was 0607 CMT – and Senior Helmsman Lieutenant Gabriel Arnold was seven minutes late. Carver sighed and glanced at the helm's controls before him. As they had read all night, the Battlestar _Aria_ had held her position on the outer system – outside of any orbital range. His job – as was the tardy Lieutenant Arnold's – was to make sure the vast expanse of ship did not move anywhere.

"Mr. Carver, you still with us?" said a voice from behind his plush pilot's chair.

"Yes, sir," Carver made an attempt to sit up straighter in his chair – his wrinkled uniform telling the story of the previous twelve hours.

The voice belonged to none other than the ship's commanding officer. A resounding "Oh Shit" went through Carver's head as the authoritative sound of boots approached his chair.

Commander Scott Mason could sympathize – slightly – with the junior officer before him. Late people annoyed him just as much as they did any man. He stood behind and slightly to the left of the chair occupied by one Ensign Carver – staring out of the solar shielded window unique to his Battlestar. Black space greeted him, as it did every morning.

A quiet brush of the CIC's door opening and closing announced Lt. Arnold's arrival. Carver gave the senior officer a slight look before restoring his controls to default position. Arnold slid into the chair and checked onto watch – his control layout coming up to the screen.

"Thank you Mr. Carver," Mason said after a sip of coffee. "Mr. Arnold, it would be wise of you not to be late to watch."

Arnold swallowed hard, "Understood, sir."

Mason chuckled slightly. So began another morning on his Battlestar – a fully armored interstellar ship of war – measuring a kilometer and a half from bow to stern, and half a kilometer wide with launch pods closed. She stood just under half a kilometer from keel to top deck – all the while cutting a terrifying figure to any enemy – foreign or domestic – who chose to take disagreement with the articles of the twelve colonies.

Mason accepted a document handed to him by his yeoman detailing the happenings of the previous watch. However, he set this on his navigation table alongside his mug of coffee and faced his Executive Officer – a Lieutenant Commander by the name of Garrett Emory.

"How was it, Garrett?" Mason asked informally, rubbing his eyes.

"As it's been for the last two nights, sir," Emory replied. "Uneventful."

"The CAP?" the Commander inquired to the status of the Combat Air Patrol.

"Nothing noted – last wing was skids down about ten ago," the XO replied. He lowered his voice. "Scott, how long are we going to be here patrolling empty space?"

"I honestly can't say," Mason replied. "Nothing from the Admiralty yet. We'll proceed as we have, running drills and staying sharp."

Emory nodded, "Guess that's all we can do for the time being."

Mason also nodded, sipping coffee, "Get some rest, Garrett."

"Aye, sir."

Mason again glanced out of the CIC's window at empty space. The CIC quietly hummed with activity around him – his crew going about their normal diagnostic checks and scans for the morning.

"Mr. Arnold, sitrep," Mason took another long gulp of coffee.

"Heading two-seven-niner degrees, speed zero, sir. Holding as ordered," Arnold was quick to reply, hoping the Commander wouldn't make eye contact.

Mason ran a hand through his brown and gray hair – betraying his young age of thirty-nine. How he had come to command a Battlestar at this young of an age was a story unto itself. What mattered, however, is that he looked the presence of a commanding officer – his black, polished boots planted firmly before his navigational table and DRADIS readout – pressed, dark navy blue duty pants, and buttoned coat displaying Commander's insignia on his collar, and Viper wings above his left chest pocket. Also displayed to a watchful eye were medals in the form of the Distinguished Flying Cross, Distinguished Service Cross, and Combat Wounded. His left sleeve showed four hash marks, one for every three years on deployment – his right showed three for his nine years spent home. Although he really didn't consider these hash marks as marks of home. His home was on his ship.

The CIC's hum died slightly, as his crew knew what was next after he inquired with his helmsman – orders for the day.

Mason obliged, "Make your course two-zero-zero degrees, ahead one quarter sublight. Tactical, give launch orders for the CAP – standard patrol."

"Two-zero-zero degrees, ahead one quarter, aye sir."

"Launch the CAP, aye."

Mason leaned against the nav table and sipped his coffee as the ship hummed with authority underneath his boots. The launch pods were being extended – extending the breadth of the ship on either side. A flurry of activity began – the Battlestar's primary function of launching and retrieving strike fighters was something that Mason's crew of just under twenty five hundred souls were well practiced in.

The Commander smiled and sipped his coffee as the buzz filled the CIC

"-standard patrol order confirmed-"

"-affirmative, two niner-"

"-dradis readings negative, clear space ahead-"

On the flight deck, the buzz was supplemented with the whine of sublight engines, shuttle vehicles, and the general din of one full squadron of twenty Mark VII Vipers. The crews absolutely roared at each other to be heard as the nimble fighters were loaded to launch tubes.

"-watch the rail!"

"-two nine loaded – go flight!"

"-heads up you frakkin' moron!"

"-weapon is hot!"

"-good hunting you frak!"

"First and second flights loaded, sir," reported Captain Erik Hopkins. As the _Aria's_ senior tactical officer, Hopkins was directly responsible for the primary defense of his ship and whichever assignment she was charged with.

"Aria_ – viper zero-one, Valkyries are hot,"_ crackled the speakers in the CIC. Mason smirked. While the comm traffic wasn't exactly…protocol, he chose to let it pass. Viper jockeys would be Viper jockeys. He knew.

Hopkins yielded giving the final launch order out of respect for Mason. In two years' service under the commander, he had grown to respect the man who was only nine years his senior in age. However, Mason had never demanded this respect from Hopkins, nor anyone serving under him. He had simply demonstrated his ability to lead. In the short span of two years, Hopkins continually was amazed by the poise of the commanding officer.

"Mr. Hopkins," Mason nodded to him.

In a flash, Hopkins dislodged the receiver and keyed up – "Valkyries are a go."

Waiting in Viper Zero-One was _Aria's_ Commander of the Air Group. A recent replacement that actually still had yet to formally meet the commander. She had started yesterday, and was known to most simply as "Artemis."

She sat in the idling craft with her arms folded, waiting on the launch order. She hadn't made it a point to really get to know the squadron over the past twenty-four hours. Much of it had been spent unpacking and preparing for her duty station. She had been shown to her quarters by Emory, who had her sign something and had dashed off quickly, but not without a poorly veiled sweep of her figure.

Artemis rolled her eyes and damned the gods for making men the way they were. She didn't let it trouble her. She was used to it. The men aboard a Battlestar routinely lost their minds about two weeks after leaving port – which was to say nothing about the crew of the _Aria_, who had been on patrol for the better part of a year. Artemis imagined just about any woman walking in the corridors was enough to make the men cause self-induced cervical spine damage.

"_Valkyries are a go."_

"Zero-one, roger roger," she smiled and slammed the throttle forward on her Viper. The Mark VII belched blue-white flames out of its three triangle-formed sublight engines. She glanced to her right at her launch control crewman, gave the customary thumbs-up and salute, which was returned. The next instant, she felt the sickening punch in her abdomen as her Viper strained to escape the artificial gravity generated by the _Aria_.

And it was instantly gone, replaced by the weightless feeling of space. Something Artemis had always savored. She rolled her Viper three times and came about hard, as was standard. She looked over her left shoulder and saw the other nine Vipers flung from their launch tubes into space in short order.

"Crash, take your people and start for Beta sector, regular reports, everyone else on me," Artemis said over the comm.

"_Roger roger."_

She looked through her cockpit's windscreen to see a group of ten Vipers split from the formation she spearheaded.

"_On you, Artemis."_

She looked to her right as the remaining nine Vipers formed up on her wings. They flew tight – she was impressed. Privately, of course. She nodded to the sender of the transmission, a pilot she knew simply as "Corndog" – he had apparently lost the card game the night before and was forced to volunteer himself as the new CAG's wingman. The spot was revered and hated. To fly on the wing of the CAG was to be under constant scrutiny – however, it afforded the best assignments in the squadron. And if this Artemis was really the type of Viper pilot everyone rumored her to be – it would be a front-row seat to witness the craft at the hands of a master.

"So that's the famed Artemis?" Mason said, mostly to himself. He watched the CAP break away into its two flights on the dradis screen. He had given her file a cursory glance the night before. Most of what he knew about her was from Viper jocks loaded with ambrosia in local pilot's watering holes. Their tones were hushed when the spoke of her. Mason, as he had always, decided he would judge for himself.

Had Artemis been the kind of person who smiled much, she would have at the sight of the massive Battlestar. She had not had a chance to fully appreciate the ship the day before – she had jumped in expertly next to the landing pod, and had thankfully arrived when the pattern was clear. Now she beheld the ship through her cockpit – the towering white letters spelling _ARIA_ on the side of the launch pod, the lights blinking into empty space.

She cruised slowly in a wide arc around to the front of the ship. As she rounded the port bow, she saw the exclusive panoramic window on one side of the CIC. And one man standing in front of the nav table – his arms folded as he reviewed her flight.

Now she really did smile.

"Viper Zero-One, _Aria_ control," was overheard by Mason. He glanced to his left at Lieutenant Andrea O'Reilly – who's job definition was technically senior space traffic controller. However, she was simply known as the "Air Boss." Not a single craft landed or took off from the _Aria_ without her direct knowledge. She reported to Hopkins, who set his coffee down and walked to her station. Mason remained planted, looking out the CIC's window.

"Viper Zero-One, _Aria_ control," O'Reilly tried again. This was somewhat unprecedented. As most good Viper pilots knew, it was either answer the air boss when called, or expect a short flight followed by a long time grounded.

Artemis, of course, knew this. However, she wasn't perturbed. She nosed her Viper around, finishing the wide arc. She now was head-to-head with the giant ship. Her Viper was a speck on the map by comparison.

"_Zero-one, one-three, uh…ma'am…"_

Artemis ignored the prompt by Corndog.

"_Viper Zero-One, _Aria_ control on fleet comm."_

Artemis gave a quick thought to her career, and decided to answer.

"Zero-one."

"Frakkin' finally," O'Reilly sighed before keying up. "Zero-one, please alter flight path fifteen degrees to avoid collision."

"Aria_ control, you were broken._"

"The hell I was," the young lieutenant muttered, giving a glance to Hopkins. Hopkins, in turn, glanced at the commander. He had moved from the nav table – and was standing in between the navigator and lieutenant Arnold's helm control, staring out into space.

Artemis smirked, and pushed her throttle cyclic all the way forward. Flame roared out of the end of her space superiority fighter, launching it forward. Her flight wing had little choice but to follow suit.

Corndog watched the new CAG stomp on the gas toward the looming _Aria_.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said to himself, before glancing over to the pilot who was until a second ago on Artemis' left wing. He shrugged. Corndog shook his head in return, and laid the throttle down.

"Viper Zero-One, you are ordered to alter course fifteen degrees!" Hopkins barked into the comm. "Viper Zero-One, _Aria_ Tactical – respond!"

Mason still said nothing. He remained standing on his CIC, unmoved.

A shrill siren filled the CIC as dradis flashed collision alarm.

"_Warning – Collision Alarm – Warning – Collision Alarm – Warning."_

Artemis rolled over, and buzzed the CIC – looking directly up – or down, rather – through her windscreen, looking straight into the eyes of Mason.

Mason stood, looking up through the glass at the Viper pilot. Her flyby was perhaps a second in length – and had there been any air in the void of space to create a sonic boom, the whole bow of the _Aria_ surely would have shuddered. However, the pass was silent, as things were in space. He simply looked up as Artemis passed by, and smiled in return.

Artemis was satisfied. The Commander hadn't moved. At least he was man enough to put on a brave face for his crew in front of his fancy window on his CIC. She righted her Viper, and made for the normal CAP route.

Mason almost laughed. He turned, "Cancel collision alarm. Mr. Forte, get me their channel, please."

"Aye, sir," was the reply from Communications Officer Ensign Jordan Forte. "Channel is yours, sir."

The CIC held its breath, waiting for the Commander to drop the hammer on the new CAG. This was going to be ugly. Like a car accident, though, no one could look away.

"Viper Zero-One, _Aria_ actual."

Well, Artemis thought. That was quick.

"Go, actual."

"_Nice trick, Artemis. Reminds me of the same thing I pulled on the _Cathedral_ ten years ago. Resume your normal patrol and think about some new tricks while you're out there. That will do with the fly-bys for today. Actual out."_

The CIC was quiet, save for a snicker here or there. Mason drained his coffee.

"Conn is yours, Mr. Hopkins, I'll be in my office. Send the new CAG by when she's through," the commander said.

"Aye, sir, I have the conn," Hopkins was smiling. He enjoyed watching the commander work.

"Commander, I've got Admiral Nelson for you," Forte called from comms.

"In my office, please," Mason said as he strode out of the CIC.

"Scott!" roared a beaming Rear Admiral Adrian Nelson.

"Good morning, sir," Mason nodded to himself, speaking into the phone.

"And how are things out in your sector this morning, Scott?"

"Operations proceeding normal, sir – nothing of significance to report. The crew is in good moral," Mason reported, leaning back in his chair.

"Very good, commander, very good," Nelson still chuckled, obviously having partaken in the traditional shot of ambrosia in his coffee that morning. Mason had resigned to himself the fact that he would never understand anyone who hailed from Saggitaron.

"How is Wendy? And the kids?" the commander asked politely.

"Ah! Wendy is spending all of my money and the kids are obnoxious as ever!" Nelson reported. "Little Brody was involved in a – er – slight altercation at primary school yesterday. His instructor said – under no uncertain terms – that he had punched the lights out of the school bully. I had to take him home, for his mother's sake, you know."

Mason snickered slightly.

"I'll let him sweat it a little before I tell him just how damn proud of him I am," Nelson continued. "But enough about my life, Scott, I have new orders for you."

Scott sat up in his chair, "Yes, sir, go ahead."

"Commander, I have an odd one here. Fleet dispatched a raptor with two viper escorts from the _Oddesy_ yesterday to scout a passing asteroid for mining prospects. They never checked back. I know you're holding position on the outer edge and running patrols, but I would like the _Aria_ to check on this one. Sound good?"

Nelson had afforded Mason the opportunity to refuse the assignment, which the commander appreciated. However, he couldn't bring himself to say no, especially to the friend he had in Nelson.

"Of course, sir, we'd be glad to check on them," Mason replied.

"Thank you, Scott, I appreciate it," Nelson said to him. "I'll send the coordinates with your orders."

"Our pleasure, sir, I'll report once we arrive," Mason said.

"I don't call you my best resource for no reason, Scott, good hunting," Nelson replied, using the traditional Viper pilot's farewell. Mason knew that the term "good hunting" meant much more than a successful mission. It meant everything – be careful, come back safe, I love you, give them hell – all of the above.

"And you, sir."

"Mr. Hopkins, recall the CAP," Mason said, striding into the CIC.

"Aye, sir," Hopkins replied, almost hiding his raised eyebrow. It was somewhat unusual to recall the Vipers after such a short time in flight. O'Reilly keyed the frequency and began the recall orders.

"Begin prep for FTL jump," was Mason's next order. He said it as matter-of-factly so that he may have been commenting on the weather. This brought the CIC to a near standstill. Almost all the crew stopped what they were doing to look at him.

Mason wasn't bothered, "Was I not clear?"

Immediately his crew was back to work – racking their brains for the faster-than-light jump procedures.

"Sir?" Hopkins had stepped close to him. "A FTL jump?"

"A FTL jump," Mason nodded. "I know it's been awhile, Erik, but we've been dispatched on an assignment from Admiral Nelson, and I intend to take care of it as soon as we can."

Captain Erik Nelson nodded, hesitantly. After a moment's consideration, he drew himself up and strode across the CIC, "Coordinates are as follows – One, niner, niner, eight, - oh, please people, this isn't a museum, let's go!"

Mason glanced up to the dradis in time to see the CAP forming up in landing patterns. He hadn't authorized combat landings – not for this particular situation. The Viper pilots were patient and waited their turn as the automated landings proceeded slower. The young commander wished it was like the old days - when he was still in the cockpit. There were no automated landings. In the day when he was still called "Bishop," he held the record for most successful non-automated landings – with one exception given to a pilot known as "Husker" from the now-decommissioned _Valkyrie_. The ship's namesake lived on through the Viper squadron now assigned to his _Aria_. He smiled slightly at the irony.

"_Zero-One you're at three klicks, call the ball."_

"Roger, Artemis has the ball," she radioed in return. As she had done five hundred seventy three times previously. She also had a distaste for automated landings. While safer, admittedly, it took the control out of her hands. She didn't like that.

"_Artemis, paddles, Commander wants to see you once you're aboard, ma'am,"_ Spoke the Landing Safety Officer – who's informal title of "paddles" was a carryover from days of aircraft carriers long ago.

"Roger," she replied. A small beep informed her that her Viper had been passed over to automated landing. She let go of the joystick, reluctantly. She folded her arms after cycling the landing skids, and waited.

"Coordinates confirmed, sir," Hopkins reported crisply, trying to hide his unease.

"Retract the pods," Mason ordered calmly. The ship hummed as the pods retracted, however the thrum of the FTL drive resounded around the _Aria_'s bulkheads – causing the uninitiated's heads to perk up and look around.

"Pods are in, sir, drive is spun," Hopkins said.

"Jump."

The ship seemingly disappeared from the very spot it occupied, destined for parts unknown.

"Captain Cassandra Schaefer reporting as ordered, sir. Permission to come aboard, sir," said Artemis as she was invited into the commander's cabin. She had now formally requested and received permission to be on the ship, even though she had been serving informally for the past forty-three hours. She enjoyed tradition in the service, and embraced it where appropriate.

"Granted. Have a seat, captain," Mason said, glancing up only once from her file. He mentally stopped himself from doing a double-take, and forced himself to look at the regulation photo that had been copied to the face sheet.

What he had saw in the cursory glance, though, took him by surprise. While fleet photos always left a little bit to be desired, this particular Captain Cassandra Schaefer had far outstripped any expectation Mason held for her.

The live version of the photo now sat across his desk from him, and politely refused coffee.

She looked slightly younger than the age of thirty-four, as reported by her file. She wore her uniform proudly, and it fit her frame nicely. She looked at him with green eyes, slightly calculating. Her brunette hair was pulled back, as per regulation. She wasn't smiling…but she wasn't _not_ smiling, either.

"Artemis," he began, "that will be enough of unauthorized flybys, am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, revealing nothing.

Mason wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"I understand you had your choice of duty stations, captain," he continued, glancing down at the file to confirm what he already knew. "Why did you choose my particular ship?"

"I drew a name out of a flight helmet, sir," she answered, truthfully.

"No shit?" Mason cracked a slight smile.

"No shit, sir."

"Well," Mason leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll tell you what I tell every officer who comes aboard to serve under me. I'm not a hard man to work for, Captain, and I only demand one thing – and that is excellence."

It was Artemis' turn to blink slightly hard. She looked at the Commander – who returned her gaze, equally revealing nothing. She caught herself staring slightly at the famed Bishop – one of the best pilots to ever jock a Viper. She thought he would be taller. He seemed to be older than he appeared – his hair, brown and grey, bore a somewhat unnatural volume that made it stand slightly. His deeply blue eyes met her gaze, not intimidated slightly. He seemed to be the type of man who knew exactly what was happening around him at all times – completely confident in himself. It triggered something in her she couldn't quite place.

"I understand, sir," she decided to reply.

Mason paused for a moment, "Any questions for me?"

"Yes, sir, one," she replied, finding her confidence again. "How many successful combat landings?"

Mason had to smile at her. A hint of a smile formed around her pale pink lips.

"Nine hundred ninety seven," he replied.

"Three short?" she asked, referring to the famous "Husker" and his one thousand landings.

"Had a gear malfunction on the ninety eighth," Mason recalled, relaxing slightly by just talking about flying. He always enjoyed it. "Had to bring her in on her belly. The admiral happened to be touring that day, and I…er…skidded my Viper into his Raptor. He wasn't very happy with me."

"Which admiral?" Artemis inquired.

"Your father, of all people," he replied, with a slight gleam in his eye. Not many people could say they wrecked a Viper into Fleet Admiral Adam Schaefer's Raptor. At least not any officers currently serving.

Captain Schaefer's demeanor broke and she caught herself laughing. She had never heard this story from her father. She tried, mostly in vain, to downplay the fact that she was the Fleet Admiral's daughter.

"You got me, Commander," she said after collecting herself. "I was happy to pull the _Aria_'s name out of my helmet."

"Because we're the furthest away from Caprica," Mason finished for her. She narrowed her eyes, looking at him and smiling.

"How'd you know?"

"You don't want to fly in the shadow of the Admiral. I get it," he said. "You want your skill to speak for you – not your name. A lot of my crew won't make the association."

She put on a face that didn't reveal how impressed she was that he had read her as easily as that. She had always been a hard read – even for people adept at the art. Artemis enjoyed this about herself. However, her current Commander had just upended it. Perhaps he was one of the few who saw through her.

"Something like that, sir, yes," she replied.

"_Commander Mason to CIC. Commander Mason to CIC,"_ the intercom buzzed.

Mason continued to look at her as though he hadn't heard the message. He understood her situation – as he did with many of the crew who sat across his desk.

"Well, Captain, I can't say that I'm not glad to have the famed Artemis aboard," he said with finality. "It will be good for morale – and I'm sure you can teach the air wing a thing or two. I usually invite new officers to dinner when they arrive – are you available tonight?"

If Artemis hadn't paused before – she did now.

_Did Bishop seriously just invite me to dinner?_

"Of course, sir," she replied, politely.

"Nineteen Hundred," he said, tossing her closed file onto his desk. "That will be all."

"Report," Mason said as he walked back into CIC.

Hopkins was quick on the uptake, "Arrived at the coordinates as ordered, sir. Flights are loading now. Initial scans show nothing."

The commander nodded, glancing first at dradis, then out the solar shield. He had been in this sector a few times previously, and recognized the giant green planet below – although the name eluded him.

"Who's in the tubes?" he asked.

"The eights, sir," Hopkins replied, not glancing up from his dradis readout. He was referring to the eighth squadron of the ship – nicknamed the Aces n' Eights.

"Good," Mason said with a smirk. The eights were a breed of their own – often found on the flight deck carousing and generally raising hell. "Go for flights, and send recon raptors – standard flight time. Regular reports, please."

"Aye, sir," replied the captain.

Mason had, again, disregarded the change in watch. He usually allotted a time in the mid-afternoon (Caprica Mean) to retreat to his quarters and review the day's happenings. But that almost never occurred. He always had fallen asleep in his chair, as he had that day. He sat with his coat unbuttoned at the top, breathing heavily.

His quarters were simply, however solidly, decorated. Dark, stained wood was common – the walls, his desk, and the trim. Dark navy blue carpeting – matching his uniform – ran the floor, emblazoned in the center by the silver colonial fleet crest, with BSG 7_3_ _Aria_ shining proudly. The walls were adorned with photos, mostly, of a younger, smiling Mason in the dark green flight suit worn by Viper pilots. Displayed in a lesser precedence were his medals – almost as though he had been forced to hang them on the wall, despite objections.

It made no difference to the napping commander. The lights were dim – he had distaste for the harsh, overhead lighting provided by the ship. He favored lamps, or the light provided by a nearby star as it shone through his small window above his bunk. His cabin held authority – but it also yielded quiet comfort to him.

"_Action stations, Action stations! Set condition one throughout the ship! Action stations!"_

Mason jumped out of his chair at the blaring warning. He struck his knee on the side of his desk ("Frak!") as he sprinted for the door.

"Report!" he said sharply as he entered the CIC. His voice wasn't raised, but the collected staff of the CIC did a double-take. The commander had arrived. And whatever had summoned him had best be un-frakked within the next five seconds.

"Sir, dradis contact, unknown type, big, bearing one-three-seven and closing," Hopkins shot back.

"How fast?" Mason asked, glaring at the dradis. A large blip had appeared, with the multi-million cubit computer saying nothing but "UNK CONT 01 137 3125 111."

"Pretty slow, sir," Hopkins reported. "But she's closing."

Emory arrived without fanfare and barked in Mason's place, "Interception course for the CAP – ready the alert five Vipers."

"Gun crews to stations, Mr. Hopkins," Mason added. "Hold fire until commanded."

"Aye, sir."

"Mr. Forte, anything?" Mason then asked.

"Negative, sir, scanning known channels," Forte replied.

"Attempt standard colonial hailing, Mr. Forte," Emory ordered.

Mason finally began to collect himself. Although he had been awakened by condition one alerts before, he still didn't enjoy the experience. It reminded him of the old Cylon war – catching sleep in the cramped crew quarters in between Viper hops.

"No response on hails, sir," Forte reported.

"Goes straight to voicemail, then," Emory cracked with a slight smile over to Mason.

Mason smirked in turn. His confidence level was high. He wasn't hoping that his ship of war would overcome this new threat – whatever it was. He knew it would. It was a difference that he stressed to his men and women. Being confident was one thing. Cocky was the other. And he had no tolerance for the latter.

"Miss O'Reilly, how close are we?" Mason asked, referring to the CAP flight speeding towards the contact.

"Matter of seconds, sir," O'Reilly replied, coolly.

"Put me through to Scooter," Mason said to no one in particular. He was referring to Captain James "Scooter" Harley, commanding officer of the Aces n' Eights. A pretty good pilot in Mason's eyes – which meant he ranked within the top ten guns in the fleet.

"You're through, sir," Hopkins reported.

"Scooter, _Aria_ actual," Mason spoke into the hard-wired phone.

"_Actual, Scooter."_

"You should be in range soon, what do you have for us?"

"_Nothing yet – can I confirm weapons status?"_

"Weapons tight, Captain, do not fire unless fired upon."

"_Acknowledged, sir. Dradis shows this thing right in front of us but we can't see a thing."_

"_-Scooter, Peach, we'll break high and left-"_

"_-it should be right here-"_

"Sir, alert Vipers are loaded and standing by – fifth squadron," Hopkins said quietly in the direction of Emory.

Emory nodded, listening with Mason to the viper chatter. Mason nodded as well, silently acknowledging.

"_-what the frak is this-"_

"_-this some kind of joke?"_

"The hell is going on, Garrett?" Mason asked quietly. Emory looked at him and shrugged.

"Aria_, Scooter."_

"_Aria_ actual, go Scooter," Mason replied.

"_Commander, I don't know how to put this, but there's not a thing out here."_

"We're closing in now, sir," Hopkins said, nodding his head towards the dradis readout. It showed the _Aria_, her swarming squadron of Vipers, and the unknown contact. By all purposes, the _Aria's_ bow should have been ramming into whatever it was.

"Well," Mason hummed. He stepped away from the nav table. His friend and XO trailed behind him as they approached the solar screen.

The two men folded their arms and looked out into empty space. The Eights cruised slowly by in loose patterns, their pilots confused. Some cracked jokes and loosened up on the formation, performing stunts.

"I know better than to ask, Scott, but perhaps a cloaking device?" Emory had to almost laugh at himself.

Mason smiled, but also nodded. His XO was covering all the bases, which was why he was in the position he was in.

"No, I don't think so," he answered. "Even if there was anyone but else to travel this far out, there hasn't ever been a way to hide a ship. Ever."

Emory nodded and continued to stare into empty space.

"If there was piracy out this far, though…" Mason mused, trailing off.

"They definitely wouldn't want to pick a fight with this ship," Emory replied. "Not even I would on a good day."

"Nor would I," the commander said. Then, turning to Hopkins, "Secure from condition one, Mr. Hopkins, resume normal course and operations."

"Aye, sir," Hopkins said. He flipped up a corded phone with flair, as if he had done it several hundred times previously. "Secure from condition one, secure from condition one. Action stations secure."

"Let's have the raptors scout ahead by a jump and see if they can find anything else," Emory added. Mason nodded, absent-minded. Such was the trust the commander had for his executive officer. Emory could order a crewman to shoot Mason in the head, and Mason would be hard pressed to disagree.

"The fifth can stand down from alert five for the time being – but tell those guys to stay cool for the moment – at least until all the raptors are back in our airspace," Mason said to Emory in a low voice.

"You bet," the XO replied. "doesn't feel good to me, either, Scott."

Mason grunted, frowning slightly.

"Mr. Hopkins," Mason turned, summoning his tactical officer up to the nav table.

"Sir," Hopkins arrived in about half a second. He bent over the table to speak with the commander in a low voice.

"You ever see her talk like that, Erik?" Mason asked, referring to the dradis computer.

"No, sir, I can't say that I have," the captain replied.

"You've started diagnostics?"

Hopkins nodded, "Nothing as of yet, I'll let you know as soon as we find something."

"Who's on it?" Mason asked.

"Saylors, sir."

"Good," the commander was pleased that Warrant Officer Saylors was running the diagnostics. He had signed his approval to promote him to information technology supervisor two months prior.

"Yes, sir," Hopkins agreed. Mason nodded to him, informally dismissing him.

Artemis sighed with boredom as she flipped the page on more pilot performance analysis. She had a rather strong distaste for the administrative portion of her job as CAG. She sat with her legs crossed in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the pilot's ready room, using the fold-away desks on the chairs on either side of hers to hold stacks of files.

She thought back to her meeting with the commander. It had lingered a little longer than she would have liked in her mind. The captain sighed, annoyed. She had work to do.

"Ma'am?" came a voice from behind her.

"Yes?" Artemis turned, her brunette hair swishing slightly against her flight suit. Before her stood the only other female Viper pilot in the air wing – a Lieutenant Naomi "Nike" Emerson.

"Hey Nike," the CAG nodded to the open chair beside hers. The pilot sat down.

Artemis dug her file out from the stack beside hers. She was silently appreciative of the other female pilot beside her. Even though Artemis was, technically, the fleet's top gun, she still needed to go shot for shot with the boys at the bars, cuss just as colorfully, and enjoy the traditional cigar just to make sure no one frakked with her.

"So, Nike, goddess of victory," Artemis nodded as she rifled through her file, looking at nothing in particular. "Good callsign, I like it."

"And I like yours, ma'am," Nike replied, slightly nervous for her first performance review with the new CAG. She was literally sitting inches from the best pilot in the fleet.

Artemis could almost hear Nike's heart beating. Her next question caught the younger pilot off guard.

"Does anyone give a halfway decent manicure on this flying man-cave?"

Nike sputtered before laughing.

Artemis smiled, glad to break the ice.

"Yes, ma'am, they fly someone in from Caprica every two weeks or so – depending where we're at."

"Good," Artemis said. While it didn't scrub her entire month to go without girly things, she did have an appreciation for such things from time to time.

She continued, "Nike, your combat landings look good to me, you're shooting within the thirtieth percentile, no major emergencies noted at all in your logs – I don't really have anything else. Keep kicking ass."

"Thank you, ma'am," Nike replied, suppressing the urge to smile.

"Anything for me?" Artemis said as she signed the file with a halfhearted signature.

"Um," Nike mused for a second. "If I may, ma'am…and I hope I'm not out of line here –"

"Frakkin' please," replied the CAG as she handed the younger pilot her file back.

"Ok," Nike smiled again, beginning to relax. The new CAG wasn't so bad. "The guys couldn't help but notice your flyby. They're actually pretty impressed."

Artemis didn't convey the immense satisfaction she felt at these words.

"Well, it was a bad example to set," she said.

"Like anyone gives a shit, it was awesome," Nike laughed. "None of the other guys would have the stones to try that with the commander on watch, anyway."

"Yeah, he was real impressed," Artemis laughed. "Called me into his quarters straight after."

"You," Nike's eyes went wide. "You got called to his _cabin_?"

"Well, yeah," Artemis replied. She enjoyed the informal conversation – thankful for a distraction from work.

Nike flushed slightly, "Wow."

"What?" Artemis raised an eyebrow.

"It's," the lieutenant started. "What's he like?"

"You've never met him?" the CAG asked.

"No," she said, trying not to smile. "I passed him in the hall once. He said 'hi' to me, and I…I ran into the bulkhead."

The two women broke out into laughter.

"Smooth," Artemis said.

"I was so embarrassed!" Nike said. "There's the commander, and I run straight into the wall! It's bad enough when you frak up in front of a superior officer, much less the commander, and much less someone as hot as –"

Nike stopped short, feeling her face get warm.

Artemis smirked.

"I – uh," Nike said.

"It's ok," the CAG said. She had been trying not to admit this to herself. " He…is kind of easy on the eyes."

Nike remained silent, embarrassed. She nodded, however.

"Anyway," Artemis tried to clear the awkward air. "I'm late for…something. Want to grab a drink later?"

"That sounds good," Nike replied, standing quickly. "Ma'am."

Artemis nodded her dismissal, gathering her files.

Artemis rushed down the corridor, buttoning her dress grays as she ran. A readout read a very digital "1904" as she ran forward to the senior officer's mess.

"Frak," she whispered to herself, damning the uniform's pencil skirt for not allowing her to run faster.

She skidded to a halt in front of the door, which was slightly open. She knocked anyway.

"Come in," came the voice of the commander.

Artemis killed the power to a readout just outside the door and vainly stared into the glossy black screen. She ran an hand over her somewhat frizzed brunette hair – worn down – in a failed attempt to get it to lie flat. She sighed silently in frustration before entering the dining room.

"You're late, Artemis," the commander said.

"My apologies, sir," she said, stepping in and saluting, as was customary.

Mason glanced over from the mini bar. He once again forced himself not to stare. Emory was right about something for a change. His XO had promptly informed him that the new CAG – the _Fleet Admiral's Daughter_, no less – was about to be the best thing to ever happen to this ship of war.

She stood in her dress grays, her skirt hugging her thighs, and her fitted coat gracing her torso nicely – doing so without revealing too much. He returned the salute.

"Please, captain, we may drop the formalities," he said. "I believe we are having steak – red wine ok?"

"Cabernet?" she replied, still standing at ease.

"Yes," the commander replied. He had forgone his dress grays for this occasion, still wearing his navy blue duty uniform. He poured two glasses. "Please, be seated."

Captain Schaeffer took the seat offered by Commander Mason. He placed both glasses of wine on the black marble dining table – just as the phone rang.

Mason's brow furrowed slightly as he strode over to the phone, picking it up. Artemis sat at the table, the wine untouched.

"Mason," he spoke into the receiver. He listened for a moment, "Come on, Garrett, you can't spare an hour…very well, I understand…no, it's fine, really. Get it done."

He hung up the receiver, turning slightly. He looked over his shoulder at the CAG, "Commander Emory was supposed to be joining us, but he's hung up on the dradis diagnostics."

"I see," Artemis replied, remaining as polite as possible. She allowed her eyes to linger at the commander's turned back. The uniform was designed to accent features admired in military personnel – wide shoulders, trim waist, and so on. He wore it proudly. Artemis also noted that the commander appeared to still take in his share of exercise on the vessel.

"No matter, he'll just have to have his steak cold," Mason quipped. He sat at the table, glancing over at Artemis. He held her green eyes for a moment too long.

He cleared his throat, grabbing the wine glass in front of him, "How did the guys do with the condition one?"

"Flawlessly," she replied, recognizing the desperation move to talk business. She played along. She also had held his deeply blue eyes for a moment too long. "The eights were already on the flight deck, most of them anyway."

"Not surprising," Mason replied. "Probably trying to prank some poor bastard, right?"

"They were trying to spray-paint Scooter's Viper's markings pink," Artemis replied, a slight smile to match.

Mason suppressed a laugh.

"It's handled," the CAG reported, deftly.

"I'm sure it is. Scooter is a big guy – not one I'd like to mess around with," said Scott "Bishop" Mason.

"Indeed," said Artemis, attempting to keep the conversation formal.

"So you're adjusting well to the new position?" Mason asked, taking his turn at playing along.

"Yes," she replied. "The paperwork…"

"Is bullshit," Mason finished for her. "It doesn't get any better."

She smiled and laughed, delicately grasped her wine glass, "To bullshit?"

Mason smiled and touched his glass lightly to hers, "to bullshit."

She sipped the wine – and was immediately impressed.

"Commander," she said after pursing her lips.

"Please," he held up a hand. "Formality has its place on my ship. So does informality."

"Bishop, then," she narrowed her eyes, a hint of a smirk on her face.

"Perfect."

"Bishop. I understand you're in your late thirties?"

"Thirty-nine," he replied, nodding.

"And Nelson tossed you the keys to a Battlestar? The _Aria_ nonetheless?"

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around it," he replied. "I know I'm young to command a Battlestar. I'm the youngest commander in the fleet, by far. I took this command three years ago and am still some days getting used to it."

"How did that happen?"

Mason considered for a moment. After a sip of wine, he began:

"I worked my way up through command on the _Cathedral_. The overhead was comprised of a lot of guys who were counting the minutes down to retirement. They kept retiring – one just a few months after the other. Admiral Nelson had a serious problem keeping up. Before I knew it, I was thirty-five and had been the XO under Commander Weissbach for two years. And then the _Aria_ was commissioned. Nelson made the call, and I couldn't turn down my own command. I wanted the _Cathedral_ –but I've grown to love this ship, and her crew."

Artemis nodded. The yeoman had come and gone, serving them both.

"However," he continued, "There are some days I wish I was only a lieutenant, flying my bird and not worrying about much else. I'm sure you understand."

She nodded. It was something that only Viper jocks understood. They both quietly worked on the meals in front of them for a short time.

"How's home?" Mason asked. His feet had not left his ship in over a year. And while he didn't mind this in the slightest, he was curious of things occurring terrestrially. Unfortunately, the happenings on the warm, safe surface of Caprica often dictated what happened on his Battlestar.

"The usual," she replied, not quite hiding her condescending tone. She had the place to say so – she had spent her time away in the fleet. "Dad is busy posing for pictures and going to meetings. The people around fleet are too busy being blissfully ignorant of what's happening out here."

Mason laughed. His CAG had just established herself as someone who had just as strong of distaste for hanging around fleet command as he did. He knew she was right. Aside from Admiral Nelson – he was of the opinion that everyone had drank the spiked ambrosia that seemed to make them forget what it was to serve the colonies. Mason did, however, have the foresight to realize that people like this were a necessary evil to maintain a functioning military. He was thankful to be where he was – on his ship, left relatively to his own devices.

"The callsign," Artemis said in her alto voice. She looked at him with a curiosity. "How'd you get it?"

"On the _Cathedral_," Bishop replied. "Kind of a cliché. But it was Weissbach himself who gave it to me."

"Why Bishop?"

"In his terms, because everyone held me in reverence on the _Cathedral_,_" _he replied, smiling slightly because it sounded somewhat ridiculous to him.

"And something else," slight laugh lines formed around the corners of her eyes as she smiled at him.

"Ah," Mason hummed. "Yeah…"

"The Bishop's Hat," she finished for him.

"Yeah," he said, sheepishly. Artemis was referring to a combat maneuver invented by the very man sitting across from her at the table. "It's too dangerous, though. I still kind of regret inventing it."

"I don't think so," she replied.

"I wasn't aware they were still teaching it," Mason said.

"They're not," said Artemis.

"So how do you know?" he challenged, in a friendly way. He smiled at her. _Holy Gods, Bishop, are you flirting?_

"Nothing's too dangerous for me," she replied, staring straight back at him. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, brushing his leg in the process.

Mason wondered why he focused on that. Then he remembered to breathe.

_What the hell, Bishop?_

Artemis felt the ventricles of her heart contract rather forcefully.

_What the frak was that, Artemis?_

"That's a bold statement," he replied, only then remembering what the conversation was about.

"I don't think so," she said. "There's a difference of knowing you can do something and thinking you can."

Bishop had to smile, "Indeed there is."

"So are you going to show me?"

Bishop forced himself to clear his throat. He broke the target lock Artemis had on him with her eyes – reluctantly.

"Maybe…er…at a later date. When we aren't on an assignment from the admiralty," Bishop said. The hardened command officer in him demanded that he chastise Artemis for being so forward with him. He could tell what she was thinking, and he was thinking the same thing. However, words such as _insubordination_ came to mind. Not to mention words he would hear such as _conduct unbecoming, _and _dereliction of duty._ "You understand, of course."

"Of course," she said, keeping a face as if she knew that this exact thing was coming – it revealed nothing. She smiled and finished her wine, "Duty calls."

"Indeed it does," Mason mumbled.

"Thank you, sir, for dinner. I look forward to a productive cruise here," Artemis said, standing.

Mason stood as well, straightening his jacket, "The pleasure is mine, Captain. I'm glad you're here on my ship. Very glad."

She made for the door, and Mason inhaled the scent of her hair and perfume as she strode past him. Her shoulder brushed his chest. The customary salute was exchanged.

Mason shut the door and listened to the sound of her heels as she strode down the hallway.

He turned his back to the door and looked at the ceiling.

"Frak."


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE:

Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

My very humble thanks to you who have added me to your story/author alerts. I'm flattered, really. Enjoy this next one...I had alot of fun writing this bit.

2.

Emory rubbed his eyes wearily. Every single diagnostic check in the book had been done to the dradis computer. Twice. And not a single explanation for the phantom contact.

"These things happen, sir," Warrant Officer Saylors explained. "Technology isn't perfect – even on this ship. While phantoms are rare, they exist."

"I understand Mr. Saylors," Emory said quietly as he leaned on the nav table, clutching his coffee cup for dear life. The time was 0347 CMT. The night watch had just a few more hours to go. Having been up since the condition one alert, however, Emory was beginning to look, and feel, a little haggard.

"Sir, if I may, you look like hell," Saylors said, folding his arms over his wrinkled orange jumpsuit.

"I feel like hell, Jim," The young lieutenant commander replied. "I'll get some rack here soon. You should do the same."

"I will, sir, thank you," Saylors said, picking up his tools and shuffling out of the CIC.

Emory began a memo to Mason detailing the diagnostic checks. He knew that Mason's pride would be a little stung. Frankly, so was his. In the humble opinion of the CO and the XO, the _Aria_ was the finest Battlestar to ever sail. Down to the very bolts. A malfunction in the computer, while seemingly minor, was out of character for such an efficient ship of war.

"Sir," said a young lieutenant from tactical.

"What is it, Slade?" replied the XO.

"It's Raptor one-seven, sir," said Slade, his voice strained. Even for three in the morning.

"Put them on speaker."

"Aria_ Raptor One-Seven."_

"One-seven this is the XO, go," Emory spoke into the wireless as he squinted up at the dradis. One-seven was hovering just on the edge of the dradis – at a distance of one hundred thousand miles – a relatively short distance considering the vastness of space.

"_Sir, we've found something."_

"I'm listening."

"_It's…it's a body, sir. Human. Colonial pilot."_

Silence fell over the CIC.

"A – what? A pilot? One of ours?" Mason spoke into the wireless in the total darkness of his cabin. He glanced at the clock and was thankful there wasn't a firearm within his immediate reach.

"_No, sir, not one of ours. All souls are accounted for. We're bringing it back. It will be here in three minutes."_

"Ok," Mason laid back into bed, wireless pressed to his ear. "You know what to do."

"_Yes, sir,"_ replied Emory before hanging up.

Emory was waiting on the flight deck as the Raptor was towed into its parking position. Nothing was ever secret on a Battlestar – a small crowd gathered around to see the happenings.

The side hatch popped to the raptor. The ECO, an Ensign named Hewitt, peered out at the waiting Emory. He wasn't smiling.

Emory stepped up onto the side of the raptor and looked to the floor.

Covered, respectfully, in an emergency blanket, was the colonial pilot. Emory lifted the corner of the blanket to identify the patch.

Though frosted, it clearly read _Battlestar Odyssey - BSG 68_.

"Uh oh," Emory breathed to himself.

Mason caught up with Emory outside of the ship's morgue – a crude offshoot out of sight distance of sick bay. It really was just a glorified closet without environmental controls.

"What do we have on him?" the commander asked. He had forgone coffee in his haste to meet with Emory – and was now questioning that choice.

"Lieutenant Ethan Malkin, raptor pilot, serving with the _Odyssey _for the past year and a half – good service record, usual medals," the XO replied, looking down at a stack of papers. "Looks like all good to above-average reviews in his flying – both for Raptors and Vipers. Not a bad pilot, by the looks of it, Scott."

Mason glanced down at the report offered by his XO. The typical flight-school photo showed a beaming young man in a green flight suit that could have passed for any of the pilots under Mason's command. He damned himself for not knowing all of their names.

"Hewitt and Aubrey found him just…floating? No debris? No raptor?"

"Correct."

"Gods," Mason muttered. He shook his head, "Alright. Let's make sure the body is under guard. I'll get on the horn to Nelson and see where we go from here. Maintain current patrols and CAP, and then frakking get some rest, Garrett, you look like hell."

Mason smirked and nodded, "Aye, sir."

"And that's the story, sir, I wish I had more for you," Mason said into the wireless. He took a long draw of coffee.

"_Well, Scott, I don't know what to say. We lost a pilot. That's a damned shame. Don't worry about telling Jacob,"_ Rear Admiral Adrian Nelson said, referring to the _Odyssey's_ commanding officer, Commander Jacob Greene. Mason knew him well. _"I'll tell him myself. I would like you to transport the body back to Caprica, if you can, Scott."_

"Yes, sir, of course," he replied. "We'll begin that process now."

"_Not all of you, commander. Just a raptor."_

"Sir?" Mason inquired.

"_A colonial pilot has been killed. That is possibly an act of war, Scott, under the articles. We both know that."_

"Indeed, sir," Mason gripped the wireless slightly tighter. "But from whom would that threat come?"

"_That's what I need you to find out, Scott."_

"Have Schaefer do it personally, please," Mason said to Hopkins. The senior tactical officer nodded, taking the signed order out of the CIC.

Mason was still coming to grips with the fact that a colonial pilot had been lost. He tried to remember the last time a pilot had been lost in a combat situation. It harkened back to the Cylon war. _Had it been that long?_

"Sir, CAP is –"

Mason simply nodded. O'Reilly gave the launch order. The commander was solemn as he watched the Vipers form up in front of his ship and split into patrols. He wondered to himself why he felt the way he did about this Lieutenant Malkin. The man had never served for him, nor had he known him personally. But the death of this young man still stung him.

"Sir, Task Force Raven reports ready," O'Reilly said, almost timidly, in his direction.

"Go," Mason said. "And please get me Raven."

"Aye, sir," replied the Air Boss, crisply. "On now, sir."

"Raven, _Aria_ actual," Mason spoke into the wireless.

"_Go ahead, sir," _replied Lieutenant George "Raven" Young – the raptor pilot charged with leading this task force.

"Raven, Bishop. You know the stakes. Find these guys and let's give them a new definition of pain and suffering," Mason said, in a low voice. Those who were listening raised an eyebrow. The commander hardly used his old callsign on the wireless. It certainly wasn't protocol to do so.

"_Understood, sir. We won't come home until we have answers."_

"Actual copies. Out."

The CIC doors swished. This was such a common occurrence that Mason hardly noticed it anymore. The sound of boots on metal decking approached him.

"Commander," said a voice behind him.

"Yes," Mason replied, turning to find Artemis standing before him. The look on her face was not the best he'd seen.

"A word, please, sir," she said, glancing quickly around the CIC.

Mason obliged, "Mr. Hopkins."

Hopkins nodded, acknowledging the transfer of deck command to him. While informal, the Captain knew that the commander would be back shortly – this making a formalized transition unnecessary.

"In my office, Captain," Mason gestured to Artemis, maintaining professionalism. She nodded, playing the professional game.

She led the way down the hall. Mason tried vainly not to stare at her figure – dressed in the colonial green flight suit, her brunette hair (worn down, again,) swishing gently around her shoulder blades. The commander's mind battled with itself. He was on the hunt for someone or something that had taken the life of a colonial fleet officer – and yet, he found himself breathing the scent of Artemis in as she walked before him. He instantly felt intoxicated. The commander followed her into his office.

Artemis turned to face him. She tried with every fiber in her being to hang onto her nerve. The man standing before her had issued orders that definitely did not agree with her plan of staying far away from Caprica. She thought he had understood that. But looking into his deeply blue eyes, she couldn't help but notice the storm behind the furrowed, dark brows above them. His face appeared creased, worn, worried, and above all, angry. A small part of her, buried deep under her armor, wanted to tell him that she would help make this right. To do whatever was necessary to make him smile like he did the previous night as they dined. A larger part of her, however, spoke.

"Commander, what the frak?" she snapped.

"You're way out of line, Captain," he cautioned, his voice even.

"You're having _me_ fly to Caprica?" she shot back, her eyes locked on his.

Mason sighed, "It's an honor to bring this brother home, Artemis."

"You know why I'm here, on the _Aria_, sir," she replied, calming slightly. "And you send me right back?"

"I need this done right," Mason said. "It looks good for us if we send our best pilot on this assignment."

"Bishop," Artemis said, keeping her armor on. "You know that we'd all like to be out there hunting this frak down. Can't you send someone else?"

"Firstly," the commander said, walking over to the mini bar. "We don't know that whatever killed our guy is a thing that can be blown apart with forty millimeter Viper ammo. Secondly, if it was a somebody, yes, I'd pull the trigger myself."

Artemis accepted the glass of water offered by the commander.

"Thirdly, I can't send someone else. This looks good for all of us. It's an easy assignment, Artemis. Jump to Caprica, deliver the young man to his family, and get the frak back here," he finished, taking a sip of water.

She stared at her glass. She wanted to convey the rest of her argument – how flying Raptors hurt her game, how she thought this assignment was still beneath her, honorable as it was. However, looking at the man standing before her, she couldn't bring herself to do so.

"Very well," she sighed, draining her water in a single drink. "I'll be back soon."

Mason nodded, letting the tension out of his shoulders. For once, he looked his age.

"Thank you," he said, looking into her eyes once again. He was thankful that the green of her irises had warmed again. For reasons unknown, the thought of Artemis holding something against him would have made the rest of the day unbearable.

Artemis set her glass down, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She wanted to say more to the commander. Much more.

However, all she could muster was a quiet, "Thank you, commander."

"Raptor one-one, you're clear, good day ma'am," O'Reilly said into the wireless.

"_One-one, roger, good hunting,"_ Artemis's voice crackled over the wireless.

Mason betrayed nothing as he stood over the nav table. Someone may have commented about the environmental control. His attention, to the untrained eye, remained focused on the navigational chart in front of him. However, he watched the lone Raptor cruise slowly in front of the nose of the massive Battlestar – and jump.

Artemis's face remained stoic as her raptor came out of the final jump. The glowing orb of Caprica appeared in the solar screen of her craft.

"_Raptor one-one, Caprica control on fleet comm._"

"Raptor one-one," Artemis replied, intending to keep her responses short. Gods forbid her father had his wireless on.

"_One-one you're on priority landing – pattern has been cleared for you, welcome home."_

"Roger," was her reply as she began the descent through Caprica's atmosphere.

The sight on the tarmac of the Colonial fleet's Admiral Glen A. Larson Headquarterswas impressive enough. Stretching over five thousand acres in size, the complex was the hub of all things fleet related. The tarmac and runway systems were over three kilometers in length – enough space to lay the _Aria_ end to end – three times. Artemis's raptor was a speck of dust by comparison.

Excepting today. The moment her raptor entered atmospheric flight – the roar of a full squadron of Vipers almost drowned the sound of her own engines. They assumed escort positions on her wings. Not out of any military necessity – but out of honor.

"Wow," Artemis breathed. She recognized the black markings. There were Viper squadrons and then there were Viper squadrons. This was the latter. She was flying point for the 14th Viper Squadron – the Horsemen. The squadron that served at the personal pleasure of one Fleet Admiral Adam Schaefer. Their history was storied as the most decorated squadron in colonial history. She could almost make out the customized lettering on the sleek noses of the gleaming Mark VII Vipers flying tight and close to her. She didn't need to read it to know what it said. Every pilot knew.

"_And I beheld a pale horse, and his name upon him was Death."_

Artemis's fascination with the 14th was soon replaced with the realization that her father knew exactly where she was.

Damn.

She brought the raptor in as softly as she could. The roar of oversized twin tylium made a gentle, somber landing somewhat irrelevant.

If the appearance of the 14th wasn't impressive enough – the full military honor guard was.

Before her, in perfect formation, the combined command staff, pilots, and ground support of the Larson airbase stood. All of them in dress uniforms. All stood silently at attention.

Artemis powered down her craft and opened the cargo ramp. She stood (as much as one could inside a raptor) and strode to the head of the flag-draped coffin. The honor guard gathered outside began the crisp, stoic task of extracting the coffin from the spacecraft.

"_Honor guard, color guard, uniformed personnel – atten-SHUN!"_ a powerful voice boomed. The sound of five thousand booted heels clicking together cracked the humid air.

"_Pre-seeeent ARMS!"_

Five thousand hands in five thousand white gloves snapped to five thousand hat brims as the honor guard carrying the fallen pilot proceeded down the line towards the yawning hanger.

Artemis was even impressed as she stood at the bottom of her cargo ramp, saluting with the rest of the gathered fleet.

The pallbearers marched slowly – precisely. Their trip into the hanger was efficient and calculated. It had been years since they had performed this solemn task – but they marched as if it happened twice a day.

"_Or-der ARMS!"_

The gloved hands snapped down.

"_Honor guard, color guard, all personnel, dis-SMISSED."_

Artemis turned on her heel and quickly made for the cockpit of the raptor. The authentic gravity of the planetary body already felt odd to her.

"Not so fast, young lady," growled a voice behind her.

Her shoulders sagged as she sighed. She turned to face her father.

He was an impressive sight in his dress grays – his medals and citations adding at least five pounds to his tall frame.

"Admiral," she said, drawing to attention and saluting.

He returned it, fleetingly.

"Can't you give your old man a hug, Cassie?"

Artemis had to blink at being addressed by her given name. She relented, however, and embraced her father.

"Hi, dad," she said into his chest.

"Hey baby girl. How is everything?"

"Fine, thanks," she said, drawing back from him. His staff milled about outside of her raptor, all of them on a wireless.

"And how's the _Aria_? And Commander Mason?"

She felt the ventricles of her heart contract forcefully, again. However, her face remained calm. "It's a great ship. And Commander Mason knows what he's doing."

Fleet Admiral Nelson nodded, his tall uniform cap swaying slightly. It wasn't enough to cover the completely gray head of hair he had. However, his brilliant green eyes – mirrored in his daughter's – were still as bright as she remembered. The lines etched in his face deepened as he smiled at her.

"As I would expect from a pilot and officer of his magnitude. So, where are we going for dinner?" he asked.

"I need to be getting back –"

"Nonsense, Cassie –"

"Dad, it's really important that –"

"Cassie, I'm your boss's boss's boss, please-"

"I know that, but-"

"No 'but's'-"

"Sir!"

The Schaeffers wheeled around to see a Lieutenant Commander sprinting towards them.

"Admiral! The _Odyssey _has been taken!"

Mason's ubiquitous tall cup of coffee steamed in his hand as he hovered over the nav table – his head swimming with different thoughts.

"Dradis contact!" sang Hopkins. "Range Eight-Eight-Seven-Niner-Three – holding position – it just jumped out of nowhere – carom…zero-zero-three – it's right in front of us!"

The commander shifted his attention from the dradis readout to the solar screen in front of him in a quarter of a second. His eyes narrowed and brow furrowed as he strained to make out the shape.

Lieutenant Arnold leaned forward in his chair, also straining to see, "Sir, it looks like a-"

"Battlestar," Mason finished for him, taking a sip of coffee. "But which one?"

"Sir, colonial transponder confirmed, it's the _Odyssey_," Hopkins rattled off. Mason glanced upward at the dradis screen – the contact, now designated "BSG 71 ODYSSEY" held her position.

"Standard hailing, Mr. Forte," Mason said, quietly.

"Aye, sir."

"Mr. Arnold, set intercept course, ahead half."

"Aye, sir, ahead half on intercept."

"Miss O'Reilly, if you would please," Mason trailed off, nodding to her.

"Aye, sir," she replied, knowing that his request was to direct the task force to intercept.

The _Aria_'s six sublight engines flared to life – pushing the massive ship in the direction of the identical _Jupiter_-class Battlestar.

"Battlestar _Odyssey_, this is Battlestar _Aria_ on fleet comm," Forte attempted again.

Mason's eyes narrowed.

"Mr. Hopkins," he said, barely above a whisper. Hopkins glanced over his shoulder, meeting his gaze. He rose from his seat and met him at the nav table.

"Remind me again what standard hailing procedures are," Mason said, folding his arms and glaring out the solar screen.

"Sir, you know these by heart," Hopkins almost had to laugh as he adjusted the buttons on his coat.

"Humor me, Erik," Mason ordered, his eyes still fixed on the distant gray line that was the _Odyssey_.

"Standard hailing frequency, then fleet comm, if comms fail, then signal light, if signal light fails, send shuttle or raptor, sir," the captain rattled off.

"Their running lights aren't on," Mason said, in a low, deadpan voice.

Hopkins stopped, and turned to face the solar screen.

"Aria, _Raven,"_ the wireless crackled. Without breaking his gaze on the distant ship, Mason picked up the wireless and spoke into the speaker.

"Actual. Go, Raven."

"_Sir, something is seriously wrong with this ship. It's like it's a ghost – the launch pods are in, the lights are off –"_

A hush fell over the CIC.

"_There's no CAP in the air, sir, all they have is a transponder signal-"_

"Radiological Alarm!" screamed the petty officer who had taken Hopkins's place. Lights flashed red in the CIC – alarms began to blare.

"Sir – two warheads! Launch immanent! She's started final!" bellowed Hopkins. He referred to the final countdown before nuclear weapon launch – once started, it could not be reversed.

"Oh shit," Mason breathed to himself. Adrenaline flooded his veins. He could feel his vascular system dilate. The veins in his forearms and hands rose from his skin. Seconds stretched to moments – moments stretched to hours. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring.

"Action stations! Set Condition one! Spin the FTL and plot emergency jump – I don't care where, just get us out of here! Recall the task force and CAP – combat landings! Frakking hustle!"

Wirelesss were lifted from receivers. Orders were repeated and yelled into wirelesss. Personnel ran to and fro. Chaos reigned in the CIC.

Emory arrived in short order, his hair a mess and coat unbuttoned.

"You could have just had the front desk give me a wake-up wireless call," Emory smirked at Mason. Despite the prospect of having his Battlestar fragged to a zillion pieces in the coming minutes, Mason smirked back.

"_Action stations – Action stations – Set Condition One throughout the ship! Action stations – set condition one throughout the ship!"_

Mason kept his arms folded, glaring out the solar screen. He saw the task force all roll hard sixes in unison, sublight engines roaring.

"Launch confirmed! Two warheads! Detonation range in two minutes!"

"Helm – hard to starboard - one-eight-three degrees, ahead full, Arnold!" Mason ordered. "Roll a six if you have to!"

"One-eight-three degrees, ahead full, Aye!"

"Forward battery – defensive net – wide spread!" Emory barked, striding over to fire control. The bow of the _Aria_ shuddered with each salvo of gunfire. "Port battery keep up with the turn!"

"New dradis contact! She's launching Vipers! One squadron, sir!" Hopkins fired in the direction of Mason.

"Frak the Vipers – get our guys back and execute jump. O'Reilly, how long?" Mason shot over to the air boss.

"Ninety seconds to recovery, sir!" O'Reilly yelled.

"Frak," Mason swore.

"FTL ready, sir!" Hopkins roared.

"Raven, _Aria,"_ Mason clutched the wireless like it was a weapon.

"_Go commander!"_

"I need you skids down right frakking now, Raven!" Mason ordered, his voice even.

"_These things only go so fast, sir!"_

"Get your birds back to the farm, Raven, right now!" Mason yelled this time.

"_Wilco, sir!"_

"One minute to warhead impact!" Hopkins sang out.

"Increase defensive net space aft! Give those Vipers hell! AA fires at will!" Emory bawled from fire control, his normally veiled Caprican accent coming out in force. "For frak's sake, aim then shoot if you please!"

"O'Reilly!" Mason challenged.

"Raven's coming in now!"

The wireless buzzed, _"Raven, you're at three, call the ball!"_

"_Frak the ball, I'm coming in hot – get ready to jump, commander!"_

"This is gonna happen fast, people!" Mason warned the collected mass of humanity in the CIC.

The LSO was less than impressed with Raven's approach –

"_Raven, that's way too hot! Back it off!"_

"_-I've got frakking nukes on my six!"_

"_Holy Gods-"_

"Come on, Raven," Mason whispered.

"Thirty seconds!" Hopkins bawled.

"Aria! _I'm on board – jump, jump, jump!"_ Raven's voice cried through the wireless.

"Retract the pods and jump!" Mason bellowed. The collective mass of the ship shook as the pods were retracted.

"This is taking way too frakking long," Emory said a scant three seconds after Mason's order. The gun battery had been deactivated in jump preparation. Everyone was now waiting on the pods.

The _Aria_ held her breath.

"Ten seconds," Hopkins said, quieter this time.

"Lords of Kobul…" someone began to pray quietly.

"We'll make it," Mason said, to no one in particular.

"Pods are in!"

"Three…two…"

"Jump!"

Artemis's complete disregard for standard flight take-off would have normally grounded her indefinitely. For her sake, not many people took notice.

"Cassandra!" her father had roared at her. The second Artemis heard, she had wheeled around and began start up on her raptor. "You're staying here!"

"The frak I am, dad!" she shot over her shoulder before jamming her flight helmet on her head. Fury burned inside of her. She was supposed to be back on the _Aria_, not grounded on Caprica, being grounded by her father.

"Captain, shut the craft down!" the fleet admiral roared above the din of the tylium engines spooling up. The cargo ramp remained down – outside of the raptor, the Admiral's staff ran for cover.

"I can't do that, Admiral!" she screamed in return. "Are you coming with or stepping off?"

She could see his jaw clench in fury. He turned to go just as she pulled the craft off the ground into a low hover.

"Artemis," he yelled at her. She turned in her seat. He had always had distaste for her callsign. Using it was not usual.

"Good hunting," was all he said, looking into her eyes as he stepped backward off the ramp of the raptor. She looked at him as her hands directed the craft to move away. He stood on the tarmac, watching her intently – the jet blast rippling his uniform countless times a second. He stood as a statue would, watching her take off.

She blinked furiously for a moment, looking at the floor of her craft, then forward as she pushed the throttle cyclic forward – ripping the Caprican sky.

Mason broke the silence.

"Anyone glowing in the dark yet?"

Quiet snickers cracked around the CIC.

"Report," Emory said, rubbing his face.

"Sir, still working on location, damage control parties are away – looks to be minimal damage," Hopkins reported.

"Casualties?" Mason asked, looking intently at the blank dradis.

"Twelve wounded so far, sir," reported a voice Mason couldn't place. "Doc Iverson reports nothing critical at this time."

"Did Raven make it ok?" the commander asked in the general direction of O'Reilly.

"He put his skids down, bounced off the deck, off the ceiling, and landed on top of a Viper, sir, but he's aboard," O'Reilly said, pressing her wireless receiver into her ear. "Apparently it's a mess down there."

"What else is new," Mason muttered.

"Sir, FTL drive is offline – running diagnostics now."

"Frakkin' fantastic," Emory said, reaching into his pocket for a can of milled fumeralla leaves. He placed a small pinch under his lip.

Mason leaned against the nav table, unbuttoning the top button of his uniform jacket.

"Maintain regular reports on damage control, please," he said quietly, reverting back to his normal tone of voice. The adrenaline was wearing off – the feeling of complete exhaustion following in hot pursuit.

"Holy frak," Emory whispered pressing his fingers into his eyes.

"Yeah," Mason agreed. "That was-"

"Fun?" his XO whispered.

Mason considered for a moment. He, and his crew, were nearly killed. However, they had escaped unscathed – performing admirably. It reminded him of the old cylon war. He felt…alive.

"Admittedly, Garrett," he said in a very low voice, "it was close. Dangerous as hell. Thank the gods we're alive…but…yes, it was fun."

The Lieutenant Commander smiled at him and hugged him gruffly around the shoulders, "Way to stay cool, commander. This will make a great story at the war college."

Mason sighed again, tilting his head from side to side, feeling his cervical vertebra pop. He looked around at his crew gathered in the CIC – all were smiling. Tired, emotionally and mentally drained, but smiling. They had survived. The _Aria_ was flying.

"Sir, request on sub-space wireless direct from Artemis – requesting our location," Lieutenant Forte spoke.

"Do we even know our location?" Emory asked.

"I- uh…"

"Got it," Hopkins said. "We're about two jumps from the Scorpion Shipyards – er…give or take five…"

"Wherever we are, send it to her," Mason said, tiredly. "Helm, hold your position."

"Aye, sir."

"Do we have any birds that can fly?" was the commander's next question.

"A handful, sir," O'Reilly replied.

"Let's get a CAP in the air, then," Mason ordered. He turned to Emory.

"Well, what do you think, Scott?" the XO asked, finally getting around to buttoning his coat.

"I would really like to know why we were almost nuked by a colonial ship, that's what," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the table. "Never in a million years would Jacob pull a stunt like that. It wasn't him, Garrett."

"I know," Emory replied, nodding. He also knew the commander of the _Odyssey_ well. Well enough, anyway.

"Which begs the question, who was it. And how the frak did we not get the memo that there's a Battlestar on the loose dealing out nukes like triad cards?" Mason asked, mostly to himself. His anger was returning again.

"Either way, we need to get command in on this, of course," his XO said.

The wireless crackled, _"Artemis, you're at three klicks, call the ball."_

"She's home already?" Emory asked. Mason shrugged.

"_Roger, Artemis has the ball – get me actual."_

Mason picked up the wireless.

"Artemis, Actual."

"_Actual, Artemis – just came in from Caprica – they believe the _Odyssey_ has been taken over -"_

"Well," Mason said before keying up, "no shit."

Emory cracked up laughing.

" – _recommend we set condition two and –"_

"Artemis, Actual, just get home, captain – I'll brief you once you're on deck."

"_Copy, actual…"_

Mason smiled sadly, setting the wireless down.

"Aria_, Artemis…are those bullet holes in the hull?"_


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners.

I'd like to apologize about the formatting of the last two chapters - I think I have it figured out this time. I'm still getting used to the way the site publishes. It's not necessarily the easiest transition from Word to here.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this next one. I had fun writing it, as always. My thanks to my subscribers and those who have offered reviews - I'm writing for the simple joy of providing you - yes, you, personally - a (hopefully) good story. Cheers!

3.

"So," Mason said as he sunk into the leather couch in his cabin. "How was Caprica?"

Artemis crossed her legs and shifted her weight, leaning against the back of the couch, facing him. She accepted the glass of ambrosia handed to her.

"Still there," she said, after a pause.

"I hope it wasn't that bad," Mason looked away from her, down into his glass, before taking a long draw.

"No," she admitted. "But you have to hate it when you're escorted down to the tarmac by the 14th."

Mason raised an eyebrow, looking at her and smiling, "He sent the Horsemen for you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," she muttered. "They really pulled out all the stops for that Malkin guy."

"I bet," the commander said.

"Sounds like the party was better here," she sighed. "What the frak happened, anyway?"

Mason obliged her with a brief play-by-play.

"Well," she said, unsure of how to top the story.

"Yeah," Mason sighed, looking at the floor, then to her. He, again, wanted to tell her much more. He really didn't want to admit to what was happening. The commander recognized the warm feeling coming from deep inside of him. It wasn't the ambrosia. He was finally, _finally_, relaxing. And all it took was her presence.

She, in turn, was at a loss for words. She sympathized with the man seated across from her. The incident looked like it had taken a year off his life. The soft lighting in his cabin did nothing to help conceal the specks of gray mixed in with his brown hair. As an officer, she knew the feeling – however could only fathom what it was like to be directly responsible for the men and women aboard the ship. And to almost lose them all – the thought was unbearable. She looked at his face. His eyes were distant as he looked at the floor. Artemis sensed something from him. It was a sense of being completely and totally alone.

"Thank the gods I still had a home to come back to," she said quietly, drawing up her legs and tucking them underneath her.

Mason nodded, the empty feeling of solitude Artemis had picked up on rang like a bell in an empty room through his conscience. He contemplated how history would remember him – how he was almost the foolhardy commander who lead his brave and loyal men and women to their doom. Now he was the hero of the day – though he felt nothing of the sort.

"Bishop," Artemis said, softly. "Are you ok?"

He blinked hard, once.

"I'm fine."

Artemis didn't miss it, "No you're not."

"Yes, I am," he argued.

She gave him a look.

He gave one in return, damning himself for dropping his armor. This was not professional. Under any circumstances.

"Did you get a chance to see your father?" he asked her, switching gears violently.

She recognized the abort maneuver. She couldn't bring herself to force more out of him.

"I did," she said, coldly.

"Good," he replied, feeling the tension set in.

It was her turn to scramble to keep her armor on. The sight of her father watching her as she rocketed off the surface of Caprica ate at her. She damned herself for how she had said goodbye. Realizing the stakes of the situation, the thought crossed her mind that she may indeed not make it back home. Her only thought had been of the _Aria_, and…admittedly, her commanding officer.

Something inside of her told her that the Admiral had known. She remembered as a child the long deployments, the gaps between contact. She had once pressed him why he was away from home so much. How he, perhaps, loved the service more than her, and her mother.

He had smiled sadly at her. He explained

"_Cassie, you'll understand some day. I love you and your mother more than life itself._

_But the service is just as a part of me as I am of it. To love me is to love the service. If I were to give it up, I would be a different person. A person who you wouldn't know and love."_

She remembered, blinking hard. What made it worse, however, was the fact that she had yet to tell him that she understood. She now knew what the life was. He had shown her, by letting her go, that he understood, and the concept of love was shared by that. By letting her go back to the fight, he had expressed more love than words in any language could describe.

She now realized. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps one too many drinks of ambrosia, but her green eyes shone bright and glossy in the soft lighting. For the first time in years, a tear ran down her face, and splashed onto the leather sofa.

Mason watched the gleaming orb of water fall and land on his furniture. The soft "pat" of the impact may have been a gunshot in the silence.

"I guess it was just a shitty day for all of us, then," he said. She looked at him, blinking hard. He hesitated, wondering if the ambrosia was taking control.

He reached across the sofa, very gently brushing the moisture from her face. He studied it, feeling the familiar sense of the elongation of time. Her soft brunette hair fell around her face, casting shadows in the light. Her features appeared soft, her shapely brows raised with emotion. Mason savored the soft feel of her face against his fingers.

The touch of Mason's calloused hand against her face made Artemis inhale sharply. She felt him brush away the tear. His touch against her felt almost electric. The feelings inside of her built to a breaking point – her new assignment, her father, Mason, the attack – she gritted her teeth, attempting to hold herself together.

Mason gazed at her face, wondering why seeing this particular woman in pain hurt him the way it did. He hardly knew her. She had arrived only days prior. And now, here he sat, wondering what the hell was happening.

Her only focus now was trying not to break in front of this man. Despite herself, she grasped his hand in hers, burying the side of her face in his warm palm, savoring the warmth of his touch, the connection they had – finally manifested. He brushed his thumb gently along her cheekbone, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck.

Without words, she was instantly in his arms, enfolding her arms around his neck.

He held her tightly in return – savoring the scent – her hair, her perfume, the fabric softener in her uniform. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he felt her frame against his. She laid her head against his chest – the moment stretched on for ages. Mason silently implored the Lords of Kobul to hold the very progress of time.

She squeezed his neck, savoring the sharp scent of his cologne and his uniform. She locked himself into his chest – feeling more secure than when she strapped a Viper to her body. If it wasn't the ambrosia, it was Mason that intoxicated her now. She felt him run his fingers through her long hair, holding her head securely to him. Artemis closed her eyes, finally dropping her armor.

Mason did likewise. He ran his fingers through her hair, perplexed as to how it could be so soft. His ship disappeared around him, as did his cabin, and everything else except for her.

Acting on pure instinct (and to a lesser extent, ambrosia,) she looked up from his chest and met his lips. She inhaled sharply.

She tasted like ambrosia and chocolate. Mason melted inside. Her lips were soft against his, her tongue warm. Mason's core felt like a tylium engine running at redline; his skin felt like an electrical storm.

Artemis crawled on top of him – straddling his hips. She squeezed the sides of his body with her legs as she leaned over him – pressing her chest into his. Her hair cascaded down around both of their faces, veiling their passion from the outside world. She drank in his scent, desperately holding his body against hers – as if he would fall into oblivion if she let go. She quickly decided she would never let go – they would remain here, together. Not even the Lords of Kobul would separate them.

He kissed her chin, then her neck. He exhaled with passion – almost moaning as he felt her pulse dance beneath his lips. The collar of her uniform jacket blocked his downward progress. It needed to go.

He wrapped his arm around her lower back, pressing her forcefully to him. In one motion, he inverted their positions, setting her gently back down.

"Rolled a hard six, Bishop," she giggled, smiling at him.

He smirked at her, looking like the pilot he was. She began to assist him out of his uniform jacket – he obliged her.

She opened her mouth in appreciation of the sight before her – he wore the regulation black-over-gray tank top underneath his jacket – he was trim, athletic, but not overly so. His battered dog tags dangled from around his neck, glinting in the light. She grasped them, and used them to pull him gently to her once more.

He kissed her deeply again, feeling the rush of passion course through his veins – racing through his body at incredible speed. He slowly, deliberately, began undoing the buttons on the right side of her uniform jacket. She sat up slowly, allowing the jacket to fall away from her as she attacked his neck with her mouth.

Mason grasped her upper arms with strong hands as she did so – squeezing her shoulders firmly. He pushed her away from him, down to the sofa once again. His blue eyes absorbed every inch of her body. She also wore the regulation tank top underneath her uniform – it accentuated her trim frame, especially the rise in her chest, where her dog tags rested comfortably. He looked on – wanting to be her dog tags.

He bent down again, running his lips along her clavicle. He followed the hem of her shirt down – kissing her lightly. Her heart drummed against her chest – against his lips.

She pressed her hands against his chest – feeling his strength. Her fingers traced lines down over his abdomen, coming to a rest on his belt. She grasped it firmly, pulling him firmly between her legs. She wrapped them around his hips, squeezing, forcing herself upwards into him.

She had operated a standard colonial uniform issue belt on more than one occasion – undoing his was short work. The brass buckle clattered as it was freed.

"_Attention – pass the word for Commander Mason – Commander Mason, please report to the CIC – Commander Mason to the CIC."_

Mason ceased the exploration of her body. He suddenly realized that he was on a Battlestar. His Battlestar. And that he was doing something that would definitely raise some eyebrows around it.

"Frak," he whispered – his lips brushing the word against her neck.

"I was hoping that was next," she smiled, biting his ear softly as she whispered.

"Artemis, this is a bad idea, and we both know it," he sighed, bracing his hands on the sofa beneath her and pushing himself up.

"I know," she said, looking intensely into his eyes.

"I – " he stopped, looking into her eyes. He was conflicted. For once, he had no idea what to do.

"You need to get to CIC, commander," she said. Her lips, flushed with passion, curled to a smile.

"Yeah," he blinked hard, realizing that he was, in fact, a commander. "Yeah."

He stood, looking around in a daze. She smiled, grabbing his jacket and holding it open for him. He backed into it, allowing her to throw it over his shoulders. He turned to face her again.

"Shhh," she shushed him, buttoning his jacket. "I know."

He tilted his head to the side, hating the fact he needed to leave. She kissed him lightly, "Go."

The commander shook his head, and strode out of his cabin.

"Report," was his only command as he strode into the CIC.

"Sir," Emory turned to face him. He did a quick double take – hardly noticed by anyone except Mason. "Sir, bad news from engineering – we need to get down there."

"Very well," nodded Mason.

"Hopkins, you have the conn," Emory said as the men turned to leave.

"Aye, sir."

"Scott, what the hell?" Emory wore a huge smirk.

"What?" Mason replied, deadpan.

"Don't 'what' me," the XO replied as the navigated their way through the narrow corridors. "Your hair is a complete mess and –"

He leaned in close and inhaled deeply.

"You smell great!"

"Garrett, you've officially lost it," Mason said, turning his body sideways to fit through a narrow door.

"No, I haven't. Who is it?" Emory demanded, smiling.

Mason sighed, looking back at his grinning friend. He shook his head again.

"No way!" Emory stopped dead in his tracks. "No frakkin' way!"

"Forget it, ok?" he replied as they continued to the bowels of the ship.

"Dude, that's impressive. I mean, really impressive. If anyone found out, of course, you'd be busted back to lieutenant and be flying transports full of tylium for the rest of your life – but still, that's impressive," Emory said, in awe.

"Listen, we didn't _do_ anything," Mason insisted as he headed down a narrow staircase.

"Right," he smirked.

"We were, in fact, interrupted by your voice," the commander said as he brought himself to a halt outside engineering.

Emory looked appalled at himself, "I am _so_, so sorry, Scott – I didn't –"

"Shut up," Mason said, smiling and opening the door.

"What do you have, Mr. Rummel?" Emory asked the ship's chief engineer – Master Chief Petty Officer Nathan Rummel. Most people referred to him simply by his abbreviated rank – "Chief."

"Well," the chief replied, wiping a greasy hand on his orange jump suit. "The short version is – the FTL is busted. We'll need dry dock, commander."

Mason sighed, crouching down on the gangway and peering down to where the chief stood, "We can't jump?"

"No, sir, not presently," the chief replied, his hands on his hips. "The tylium fuel injectors are all messed up on it – something I've never seen before."

Mason massaged his temples, "Garrett, how far are we from Scorpion?"

"Fourteen days, and full sublight, sir," Emory said, folding his arms and leaning against the bulkhead.

"Frak," Mason muttered.

"Frak," the XO agreed.

"Frak," said the chief, who lit a cigarette. Mason let it slide.

"Well, let's get about it, then," Mason said, looking to Emory. "We'll make for the Scorpion Ship Yards, and get fixed up there. Hopefully we won't run into the _Odyssey_ again."

"Aye, sir," Emory nodded and made his way back to the CIC.

"Chief," Mason knelt against the hard metal grating of the deck. "I'll need everything you can get from the engines. We're sitting ducks if we can't jump. The sooner we can jump, the sooner we can get back into combat."

"I'll see what I can do, sir," the Chief nodded, throwing his cigarette to the deck and stomping on it with his boot.

"Thanks, Chief."

Mason strode back to his cabin – glancing at the clock as he did so. 0237.

He sighed. He had watch again at 0600. He unbuttoned his coat, throwing it into a chair as he walked into his bedroom.

Artemis rolled over in his bed as he turned on the light. He stopped short, looking at her. Her hair was a mess, and she blinked in the light – squinting. She looked beautiful.

"Look, Artemis," he began.

"I know," she said. "You have watch in three hours. Just come get some sleep."

She flopped back down into bed.

Mason sighed, and turned out the light. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his boots off, followed by his uniform pants. He crawled under the blankets. Artemis rolled over and laid her head on his shoulder.

He looked at the ceiling, hoping the next fourteen days wouldn't be their last.

"How's it looking, Garrett?" Mason asked, walking to the CIC the next morning.

"We're truckin', sir, but it's still going to be slow going," Emory reported.

Mason glanced at the helm's controls. Ensign Carver had the throttle controls all the way forward. It was only a matter of time, now.

"Very well. Thank you, commander" Mason gulped coffee. Emory nodded to him, yawning. Mason clapped him on the shoulder as he left.

The morning watch came on deck. Mason accepted the varying reports from the night before – including disciplinary, fuel, mechanical, and aviation. He gave each a cursory glance before affixing his signatures on each. The four hours of sleep were already catching up to him. He wished he was back in bed, with Artemis. However, his job was to serve his men and women. So he would, for the next twelve hours.

In the ready room, Artemis revealed nothing about the previous night. She stood at the briefing podium, flipping through talking points.

"I'm sure the rumor mill has already taken what we're doing and distorted it about fifteen times, but here's the straight story," she began. "The FTL drive is busted. No jumps. That means we need to cruise to dry dock the old fashioned way."

The pilots, jaded as they were, groaned slightly.

"Yeah, I know," she continued. "In light of the recent attempt to blow us out of the sky, the CAP is still going to be of utmost importance. Remember the birds are a lot faster than this hulk of a ship, so fly in formation, keep those throttles easy, and stay frosty. We don't have the first idea of where the _Odyssey_ is. And if they jump on top of us, the fight's gonna be on."

She looked around the room. The collected Viper jocks were solemn, but still held themselves as was business as usual. She looked at each in turn. She caught Nike's eye – the younger pilot smiled at her, slightly.

"Questions?" she asked. Hearing none, she finished, "Good hunting. Dismissed."

The pilots stood, stretching and instantly firing wisecracks at each other. Artemis gathered her paperwork, shoving it under the podium.

"Ma'am?" came a voice. Artemis looked up, pulling her hair behind her ear.

"Hey, Nike," she said. Nike leaned against her podium.

"Corndog's in sick bay," Nike started.

"Yeah, I know," the CAG replied. "Some nasty flu stuff, apparently."

"Yeah," Nike nodded. "I was wondering if you needed a volunteer to fly your wing on the first CAP."

Artemis blinked, "Sure, I don't care. Get your stuff."

The pilots were clearing out of the ready room – on the hunt for coffee before the first CAP.

Nike smiled, "Thank you, ma'am."

"No, thank you," Artemis said. "It's nice to have a good pilot on your wing."

"It is," she agreed. "Ma'am, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Artemis said. "Walk with me."

They started the familiar trek towards the flight bays.

"I stopped by your cabin last night to see if you wanted to grab a drink," Nike said. "You didn't answer – I hope I didn't wake you up."

Artemis kept her cool, "Oh, no, you didn't wake me, I was working late. Had some stuff to do."

"I stopped by your office, too, ma'am, and it was all dark," Nike seemed confused.

"I – uh, you must've just missed me, then," Artemis shrugged for effect. "I'm sorry you did, I could've used a few stiff ones."

"Maybe tonight, then," she said, as they arrived in the flight bay.

"For sure," Artemis smiled. She walked over to her Viper, accepting and returning the salute by the petty officer in charge of her Viper – a younger guy named Parker.

"Ma'am," Parker stammered as she began her walk around check of the craft. Artemis had to smile. The petty officer was about ten years her junior – though an expert in Viper maintenance, he still needed to master talking to women. He really made no effort to hide his crush on the pilot.

"Mornin', Parker," Artemis smiled at him.

Parker gulped, "Everything checked out for us, ma'am. We also finally got your name stenciled on."

Artemis glanced up to the cockpit – just below the polished canopy, she read the words "Capt. Cassandra Schaeffer"and just below, "Artemis."

"Looks great, Parker, thank you," she smiled at him again. She almost felt sorry for him. He nodded and took off walking quickly. She laughed to herself.

After completing her walk around inspection, she climbed the ladder up to the cockpit – as she had done thousands of times previously. She slid into the narrow space, seating herself on the ejection seat. Behind her, the forty eight hour oxygen supply was combined with her five-point harness. Before strapping the craft on, she began her preflight checks - something that was habit for her. She took a bite of a ration bar as she started. Thrusters, throttle, dradis startup diagnostic, weapons, tylium fuel mix, atmospheric flaps, hydraulics, comms, and engines were all checked.

She hardly had to look up when she heard the whine of tylium engines and the metallic clang of skids hitting metal decking. The night watch's CAP had landed, meaning she, and her squadron, were next up.

"Ok, Valkyries, how we lookin'?" Artemis said into the wireless.

"_Nike, go."_

"_Rafter, go."_

"_Ginger, go."_

"_Pocket, go."_

"_Buzz, go."_

The rest of the squadron sounded off, until all twenty were counted for. Artemis closed her canopy as the ground crew began to tow her Viper to the launch tubes.

"_Aria_, Artemis – Valkyries are a go," she said into the wireless, absentmindedly.

"_Roger, Artemis, flight is a go, good hunting."_

Artemis felt the slight jolt as the shooting arm snapped to her Viper's front skid. Her heads up display confirmed a hard lock with the shooting gear. She brought her engines up to idling speed – and looked at the launch officer – known in the vernacular as the "shooter" through the window. Thumbs up. Salute. Both were returned. Artemis slammed her throttle forward, and held her hands up in the canopy to show the shooter she could not interfere with the launch by touching the stick or throttle. The familiar launch punch came, then weightless space.

She tried to suppress a smile at being back in her own Viper, but it was hard to do. She rolled, and took a slow arc around the nose of the Battlestar. She couldn't help but to look though the solar shielded CIC window. Her hyper-sensitive eyes locked onto Mason's figure at the nav table. She made no effort to suppress the smile that came with seeing his form.

"_On you, ma'am,"_ Nike's voice said over the wireless. Artemis looked to her right and saw Nike forming up on her wing. The junior pilot performed a slow roll to form up. Artemis admired the custom paint job on Nike's Viper – the snub, delta wings on the side of the craft were painted to resemble the wings on the goddess Nike – and her likeness was painted on the side of her craft in stunning detail – right down to gold leaf paint on the goddess's torch of victory.

"Roger. Nice lookin' Viper you got there, Nike," Artemis said.

"_Thanks. Knuckle draggers did a pretty good job with it, if I may say so. We'll have to get yours worked on next."_

"Sounds good," Artemis replied, completing the first loop around the _Aria_. "Ok, red flight to the port side, green to starboard side. Nike, come with me and we'll fly the point."

Various acknowledgments came back as the squadron took their assigned positions. Artemis pulled a wide loop around the back of the Battlestar and buzzed the spine of the massive ship. She loved flying low and hard – as did Nike – who kept her wing the whole way.

She pulled back the throttle as her Viper cleared the nose of the Battlestar. She then used her thrusters to push her craft up and clear as the looming Battlestar cruised under her Viper. She then eyeballed the speed of the massive ship – making it her own.

And so had begun another three-hour CAP.

Mason saw Artemis pull her wide loop, and had kept his attention focused to his nav table. However, he had glanced out of the solar shield as she passed, and saw the illuminated face of the pilot turn to look into the CIC. The sight of her flying warmed him.

"Gods, that's not even fair," Arnold sighed from the conn.

"They may be able to out fly this hulk, Mr. Arnold, but all of them combined make up only about a third of our guns. We may be slow, but we make the most noise," Mason said, leaning against the nav table.

"Yes indeed, sir," Arnold smiled. His job, Mason knew, was going to be rather uneventful for the next two weeks. Fly as fast and as straight as you can. For a ship the size of the _Aria_, it took a lot to even turn her slightly. All Arnold had to do was keep his foot on the gas.

"Besides," Mason said, picking up his coffee cup. "Not many people can-"

Hopkins suddenly wheeled around and roared.

"_Dradis contact!" _


	4. Chapter 4

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

Sorry about the delay in getting this one up – hopefully I can get more writing in soon. My humble thanks again to my subscribers.

4.

"How's it looking, Garrett?" Mason asked, walking to the CIC the next morning.

"We're truckin', sir, but it's still going to be slow going," Emory reported.

Mason glanced at the helm's controls. Ensign Carver had the throttle controls all the way forward. It was only a matter of time, now.

"Very well. Thank you, commander" Mason gulped coffee. Emory nodded to him, yawning. Mason clapped him on the shoulder as he left.

The morning watch came on deck. Mason accepted the varying reports from the night before – including disciplinary, fuel, mechanical, and aviation. He gave each a cursory glance before affixing his signatures on each. The four hours of sleep were already catching up to him. He wished he was back in bed, with Artemis. However, his job was to serve his men and women. So he would, for the next twelve hours.

In the ready room, Artemis revealed nothing about the previous night. She stood at the briefing podium, flipping through talking points.

"I'm sure the rumor mill has already taken what we're doing and distorted it about fifteen times, but here's the straight story," she began. "The FTL drive is busted. No jumps. That means we need to cruise to dry dock the old fashioned way."

The pilots, jaded as they were, groaned slightly.

"Yeah, I know," she continued. "In light of the recent attempt to blow us out of the sky, the CAP is still going to be of utmost importance. Remember the birds are a lot faster than this hulk of a ship, so fly in formation, keep those throttles easy, and stay frosty. We don't have the first idea of where the _Odyssey_ is. And if they jump on top of us, the fight's gonna be on."

She looked around the room. The collected Viper jocks were solemn, but still held themselves as was business as usual. She looked at each in turn. She caught Nike's eye – the younger pilot smiled at her, slightly.

"Questions?" she asked. Hearing none, she finished, "Good hunting. Dismissed."

The pilots stood, stretching and instantly firing wisecracks at each other. Artemis gathered her paperwork, shoving it under the podium.

"Ma'am?" came a voice. Artemis looked up, pulling her hair behind her ear.

"Hey, Nike," she said. Nike leaned against her podium.

"Corndog's in sick bay," Nike started.

"Yeah, I know," the CAG replied. "Some nasty flu stuff, apparently."

"Yeah," Nike nodded. "I was wondering if you needed a volunteer to fly your wing on the first CAP."

Artemis blinked, "Sure, I don't care. Get your stuff."

The pilots were clearing out of the ready room – on the hunt for coffee before the first CAP.

Nike smiled, "Thank you, ma'am."

"No, thank you," Artemis said. "It's nice to have a good pilot on your wing."

"It is," she agreed. "Ma'am, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Artemis said. "Walk with me."

They started the familiar trek towards the flight bays.

"I stopped by your cabin last night to see if you wanted to grab a drink," Nike said. "You didn't answer – I hope I didn't wake you up."

Artemis kept her cool, "Oh, no, you didn't wake me, I was working late. Had some stuff to do."

"I stopped by your office, too, ma'am, and it was all dark," Nike seemed confused.

"I – uh, you must've just missed me, then," Artemis shrugged for effect. "I'm sorry you did, I could've used a few stiff ones."

"Maybe tonight, then," she said, as they arrived in the flight bay.

"For sure," Artemis smiled. She walked over to her Viper, accepting and returning the salute by the petty officer in charge of her Viper – a younger guy named Parker.

"Ma'am," Parker stammered as she began her walk around check of the craft. Artemis had to smile. The petty officer was about ten years her junior – though an expert in Viper maintenance, he still needed to master talking to women. He really made no effort to hide his crush on the pilot.

"Mornin', Parker," Artemis smiled at him.

Parker gulped, "Everything checked out for us, ma'am. We also finally got your name stenciled on."

Artemis glanced up to the cockpit – just below the polished canopy, she read the words "_Capt. Cassandra Schaeffe_r"and just below, "_Artemis_"

"Looks great, Parker, thank you," she smiled at him again. She almost felt sorry for him. He nodded and took off walking quickly. She laughed to herself.

After completing her walk around inspection, she climbed the ladder up to the cockpit – as she had done thousands of times previously. She slid into the narrow space, seating herself on the ejection seat. Behind her, the forty eight hour oxygen supply was combined with her five-point harness. Before strapping the craft on, she began her preflight checks - something that was habit for her. She took a bite of a ration bar as she started. Thrusters, throttle, dradis startup diagnostic, weapons, tylium fuel mix, atmospheric flaps, hydraulics, comms, and engines were all checked.

She hardly had to look up when she heard the while of tylium engines and the metallic clang of skids hitting metal decking. The night watch's CAP had landed, meaning she, and her squadron, were next up.

"Ok, Valkyries, how we lookin'?" Artemis said into the wireless.

"_Nike, go."_

"_Rafter, go."_

"_Ginger, go."_

"_Pocket, go."_

"_Buzz, go."_

The rest of the squadron sounded off, until all twenty were counted for. Artemis closed her canopy as the ground crew began to tow her Viper to the launch tubes.

"_Aria_, Artemis – Valkyries are a go," she said into the wireless, absentmindedly.

"_Roger, Artemis, flight is a go, good hunting."_

Artemis felt the slight jolt as the shooting arm snapped to her Viper's front skid. Her heads up display confirmed a hard lock with the shooting gear. She brought her engines up to idling speed – and looked at the launch officer – known in the vernacular as the "shooter" through the window. Thumbs up. Salute. Both were returned. Artemis slammed her throttle forward, and held her hands up in the canopy to show the shooter she could not interfere with the launch by touching the stick or throttle. The familiar launch punch came, then weightless space.

She tried to suppress a smile at being back in her own Viper, but it was hard to do. She rolled, and took a slow arc around the nose of the Battlestar. She couldn't help but to look though the solar shielded CIC window. Her hyper-sensitive eyes locked onto Mason's figure at the nav table. She made no effort to suppress the smile that came with seeing his form.

"_On you, ma'am,"_ Nike's voice said over the wireless. Artemis looked to her right and saw Nike forming up on her wing. The junior pilot performed a slow roll to form up. Artemis admired the custom paint job on Nike's Viper – the snub, delta wings on the side of the craft were painted to resemble the wings on the goddess Nike – and her likeness was painted on the side of her craft in stunning detail – right down to gold leaf paint on the goddess's torch of victory.

"Roger. Nice lookin' Viper you got there, Nike," Artemis said.

"_Thanks. Knuckle draggers did a pretty good job with it, if I may say so. We'll have to get yours worked on next."_

"Sounds good," Artemis replied, completing the first loop around the _Aria_. "Ok, red flight to the port side, green to starboard side. Nike, come with me and we'll fly the point."

Various acknowledgments came back as the squadron took their assigned positions. Artemis pulled a wide loop around the back of the Battlestar and buzzed the spine of the massive ship. She loved flying low and hard – as did Nike – who kept her wing the whole way.

She pulled back the throttle as her Viper cleared the nose of the Battlestar. She then used her thrusters to push her craft up and clear as the looming Battlestar cruised under her Viper. She then eyeballed the speed of the massive ship – making it her own.

And so had began another three-hour CAP.

Mason saw Artemis pull her wide loop, and had kept his attention focused to his nav table. However, he had glanced out of the solar shield as she passed, and saw the illuminated face of the pilot turn to look into the CIC. The sight of her flying warmed him.

"Gods, that's not even fair," Arnold sighed from the conn.

"They may be able to out fly this hulk, Mr. Arnold, but all of them combined make up only about a third of our guns. We may be slow, but we make the most noise," Mason said, leaning against the nav table.

"Yes indeed, sir," Arnold smiled. His job, Mason knew, was going to be rather uneventful for the next two weeks. Fly as fast and as straight as you can. For a ship the size of the _Aria_, it took a lot to even turn her slightly. All Arnold had to do was keep his foot on the gas.

"Besides," Mason said, picking up his coffee cup. "Not many people can-"

Hopkins suddenly wheeled around and roared.

"_Dradis contact!" _

Artemis glanced down – and saw the contact as Hopkins was roaring it in the CIC.

"Nike, see it?"

"_Yeah, I got it – not very big."_

"No," Artemis agreed. She looked to the left – the dradis telling her this new threat came from the port side of the Battlestar – perhaps seventy thousand klicks.

"Ok, red flight with me, Green flight, hang tight and cover the _Aria_," Artemis ordered as she banked hard to the left – pushing her throttle forward.

"Action stations, Mr. Hopkins," Mason ordered.

"Aye, sir."

"Helm, hold your present course, we'll see what it is first before we move," was the commander's second order.

"Sir, all decks report condition one," Hopkins reported, holding his hand over the wireless's receiver.

"Very good, gun crews to stations," Mason's orders sounded almost like an automated reply.

"_Aria,_ Artemis, I've almost got a tally with it," Artemis rattled off over the wireless.

"Aria _copies."_

Her green eyes squinted as her Mark VII Viper hurled forward with Nike and half the squadron in tow.

"_You see anything?"_

"Not yet," Artemis said quietly, her eyes scanning the vast black of space.

"_Artemis, _Aria_, looks like it may be a colonial raptor – is it one of ours?_"

"Can't be," the CAG reported. "My only two raptors in the air are still in your airspace, _Aria_. Can –wait a minute…"

"_Artemis_, Aria, _report."_

"OK, _Aria_, I've got it – one colonial raptor, CBDR toward you, I'll try getting it on the fleet," Artemis reported. She flipped the wireless over to Colonial Priority 1 channel, "Colonial raptor, colonial raptor – this is Viper Zero-One, callsign Artemis, please respond or you will be fired upon."

The wireless was silent.

Artemis repeated the message.

More silence.

"_Aria_, Artemis, no response on hails request instructions," Artemis sighed, watching the Raptor as it sped toward the Battlestar.

"_Artemis, _Aria, _you are instr—"_

White noise blasted over the channel. Artemis winced, turning the volume down. She flipped back to the Viper tactical channel. Noise.

She flipped through all the channels, hearing only noise.

"Frak," she breathed to herself – knowing the Raptor was jamming the wireless.

"Sir," Forte spoke from commo, "the Raptor is jamming all the wireless frequencies."

"Un-jam them, please, Mr. Forte," Mason requested.

"Working on it, sir, but this isn't a standard jamming signal – it got past our encryptions. I'll see what I can do," he replied.

"Time's a factor, Mr. Forte," the commander said, glancing up at the dradis. "Mr. Hopkins, anything else on it?"

"No transponder signal, sir – just pinging off the dradis," Hopkins said, looking at the dradis, "She's holding course."

"Have the port battery fix a firing a solution, if that thing gets in missile range, it gets blown out of my airspace," Mason ordered, folding his arms and scowling at the dradis.

"Aye, sir," Hopkins replied, picking up the phone.

"I need my eyes out there," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Artemis sped towards the closing Raptor. The wireless continued to broadcast nothing but noise.

Nike came up on her wing. Artemis glanced over, seeing her point to her ears then shrug. She did the same gesture – then pointed to her wing. Nike gave her a thumbs up before breaking high.

The CAG continued her intercept course – now within five thousand kilometers. _Too far for missiles,_ she thought. She knew within the next minute, they would intercept each other. One minute after, the raptor would be in missile range of the _Aria_.

_I'll have to take it out before it takes us out._

Artemis glanced down again at her dradis. Three thousand.

She smiled slightly, feeling her cockiness creep into her mind.

_We'll see what they're made of_.

Out of nowhere, Nike came shooting down straight ahead of Artemis. She reacted in the span of half a heartbeat, instantly inverting her Viper nose-to-tail, then snap-rolling away to the left.

"Holy frakking shit!" Artemis screamed to no one. "Nike you idiot!"

She came about again – just in time to see the Raptor slam hard into Nike's wing.

"No!" Artemis roared.

"_-this frakking thing on?"_

"_-hear a thing out there-"_

"_what just happned?"_

The wireless traffic picked back up again. Nike had obviously knocked something on the Raptor. Artemis watched as Nike spun wildly into space.

"Nike! Nike! Are you ok?" Artemis yelled into the wireless.

"_That one hurt – I'm ok – my bird is seriously bent."_

"Get your ass home!" Artemis ordered, wheeling around, locking her eyes on the Raptor. She punched it towards the craft, still on a collision course with the _Aria_.

"Kryptor, kryptor, kryptor – _Aria_ this is Viper Zero-One, I'm declaring an emergency – Nike's bird is bent – get the pattern cleared for her!"

"_Acknowledged, Artemis – Nike, the deck is all yours."_

Artemis glanced to her right, seeing Nike's smoking Viper begin to limp home to the _Aria._

"_Aria_, Artemis, that Raptor is coming right for you – it just smashed into Nike – request instructions!"

Mason blinked as the wireless traffic was restored. His eyes were locked on the dradis and the snarl of Vipers on it.

"_-request instructions!"_

Mason picked up the phone, glancing once at Forte, who nodded to him.

"Artemis, _Aria_ actual, take it out," Mason ordered, his voice deadly.

"_Roger _Aria,_ wilco!"_

"Get Nike on the deck, have damage control standing by," Mason said.

"Aye, sir."

"And get Emory down there," he added.

Artemis switched her weapon control to missiles. She brought her nose up slightly – aiming directly between the raptor's engines. A cyan-colored target came into view – her dradis making a shrill whine as it locked onto the craft.

Artemis took a deep breath, then fired two missiles.

"Sir! Artemis has fired – missiles away!"

Mason's eyes remained locked on the dradis. He watched the missiles scream forward toward the Raptor.

"Port battery standby to fire," he said quietly.

"Port battery standing by, sir!"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he muttered.

Artemis kept her eyes locked on the Raptor.

The flight was short for her missiles. They impacted simultaneously – causing the raptor to erupt in a ball of flame.

"_Aria_, Artemis, splash one," she called over the wireless.

"_Roger, Artemis, great kill – continue CAP."_

"Wilco, _Aria._"

She flipped to air tac, "Ok, guys, form it back up on _Aria_. Stay frosty out here, guys, we have to assume—"

"—that the _Odyssey _knows exactly where we are. They may be coming next," Mason said to the collected crew in the CIC. The phone buzzed.

"Commander, it's Emory," Forte reported. Mason picked up the phone.

"Garrett, is she ok?" was his first question.

"_She's fine – an ugly landing, sir, but she's intact. I'll send her to sick bay to get check out regardless. We'll be able to save the bird. Where the hell did that thing come from, Scott?"_

"I don't have the slightest," Mason said, rubbing his eyes. "It had to have come from the _Odyssey_ – I don't know of any other colonial ships with an intent to kill us yet."

"_You must've really pissed off someone at the last Colonial Day Ball or something."_

Mason smirked, "I wish it were that simple."

"_I'll be up in a bit, Commander."_

"We'll see you then."

"Nike!" Artemis roared as soon as her cockpit opened. She chose to forgo the stairs, instead jumping directly to the deck below – landing, surprisingly, with grace.

The younger pilot was being attended to by the _Aria_'s medical staff. Artemis saw a dreaded mix of green flight suit, pristine white bandages, and a slight red stain. She sprinted over to where her wounded pilot - and her Viper - was lying.

"Ma'am," Nike nodded to Artemis. The CAG did a triple-take in between her, Emory, and the medic attending to her wounded shoulder.

"Nike," Artemis started, feeling something akin to rage build inside of her. She looked at Emory, who returned her gaze and shook his head slowly.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I frakked up, I-"

"Nike, don't worry about it," she sighed, letting her hair down and shaking her head. She chose to dispense with the standard on-deck ass chewing, and replaced it with: "You need to worry about healing up. I need you out there."

The young lieutenant's shoulders relaxed, and she smiled slightly despite the pain. She was fully expecting the usual reaming in front of the gods and everyone on the deck. The fact that Artemis had shown mercy spoke to her character. Some CAGs wouldn't miss the opportunity to flex their wings.

"Ok, that'll hold until we get to sick bay. Up you get, fly girl," the medic said, assisting her into a wheelchair before whisking her off forward.

Artemis sighed, glancing upward at the wrecked Viper in front of her. She stepped up the ladder, glancing into the cockpit. Nike's canopy was cracked, one wing was nearly shredded, and to Artemis's shock, there was a surprising amount of blood in the cockpit. She marveled at the fact that Nike had kept it together enough to even land the damaged craft.

"How is she?" said a voice from behind her.

"Banged up, but she'll be ok," Artemis replied to Mason, looking at him from the ladder.

Mason nodded, his eyes dark. The thought of one of his pilots injured – in peace time, for that matter – wore at him. Mason relented to himself that the comfort of peace time died with his ship's FTL drive.

Artemis danced down the ladder, landing softly on the deck. She strode over to him. She detested the dark look in his eyes.

"She'll be fine," she said quietly, standing with her left shoulder almost touching his right. She longed to hold him, right there on the hanger deck, and tell him it was going to be fine; to perhaps lift the enormous burden on his wide shoulders. She marveled to herself at how he was handling the whole situation – at his age.

Mason breathed in the familiar scent of her hair. He remembered his days as the CAG on the _Cathedral_. At the tail end of the war, casualties were common. Despite that, it still stung him when one of his own pilots was killed or injured. He wanted to explain this to her. He wanted to tell her he understood.

_Later_.

"Captain, see to it that Nike takes her time recovering. I'll need her spot filled. It's likely that the _Odyssey_ will follow. We need planes in the air soon," he said. The fact that he had used her rank over her callsign told her that he acknowledged that they were on deck, in full sight of the crew.

"Aye, sir," she replied.

"If you could also see me later, I'd like to discuss different tactical options for the CAP while we're running for the shipyards," he said, his face stoic.

"Yes, sir," she replied, thankful that humans were incapable of seeing butterflies in stomachs.

Mason nodded. For a moment, Artemis thought she saw a hint of a smile. He turned and strode away down the hanger deck, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Ma'am?" said Parker, who had somehow materialized beside her.

"Huh?" she blinked. She realized quickly that she had been staring at the retreating figure of Mason.

"Um," Parker blinked, looking at the commander, then her, then back to the commander.

"Come on, Parker, I'm busy," Artemis said, hurriedly.

"I was wondering, ma'am, if you would be ok with it if the guys worked on your Viper's paint," Parker mumbled.

"Oh," Artemis said, wondering in a wild flash of paranoia if the young petty officer was on to her. "Sure, go ahead."

"Thank you ma'am," he replied with a quick salute.

Artemis returned the salute. She leaned backwards against the ladder, running a hand through her hair.

"Holy frak."


	5. Chapter 5

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

Alright, alright. I've been rather keen on getting this part of the story out here. For you romantics who happen to be reading, you may like this. For my readers who are looking forward to seeing the _Aria_ kick as much ass as possible, bear with me through this one. It's far from over for Mason and his boys and girls. As always, thank you so much for reading and subscribing. I'm greatly honored to be writing for you – yes _YOU_. Enjoy.

5.

"_You've got to be kidding me, Scott."_

"I wish I was," the commander replied. He sat at his chair, wireless pressed to his ear. He rested his forehead on the edge of his desk, staring at the carpet below his boots. "I really wish I was."

"_Commander, obviously this is an act of war. Are you certain you have no idea where the _Odyssey _is?"_ said a haggard-sounding Admiral Nelson.

"No, sir," sighed Mason. "No contact. We've just been running for our lives, hoping it doesn't find us. On that, sir, is there any way we can get an escort into the Scorpion yards?"

"_That…er, is going to be tricky, Scott."_

"What do you mean?" Mason asked, sitting up.

"_By not knowing where they're at, we cannot leave assets unprotected. You know that. We have twelve colonies, shipyards, and valuable outposts to protect, an-"_

"Adrian, are you telling me you can't send me one frakking Battlestar?"

"_That's exactly what I'm telling you."_

"So we're on our own?" Mason pressed, not quite hiding the anger in his voice.

"_For now, yes."_

Silence hung for a minute over the wireless.

Nelson continued, _"You're the best for a reason, Commander. You need to prove that now. It's not that I don't want to send you help – I do – but at this juncture, we need to think about protecting our resources. We don't have a lot of battlestars left, Scott. You know just as well why I can't do it."_

Mason fumed momentarily, but resigned to the superior officer's logic. In the scheme of things, he – and his Battlestar – were expendable. He knew that one colony left unprotected could be glassed within minutes by a fully loaded Battlestar.

"I know, Adrian…I know," he said quietly. "I understand. We'll hold our own."

"_I'm so sorry. For what it's worth – whoever's flying that damned ship doesn't stand a chance in hell against you and your crew. I'll bet every cubit I've made on it."_

"Hopefully we'll be holding the prince high red when the time comes," Mason quipped.

"_I'll save you a spot at the card game when you get home."_

_When we get home. If we get home._

"Sounds good, sir," Mason smiled slightly.

"_Good hunting, commander."_

"It's always hard, watching one of your pilots get hurt," Mason said quietly, his eyes fixed on the glass of red wine in front of him.

Artemis studied him. He was sitting back in his chair, slouching almost. He appeared tired, frustrated, and almost sad. He sat with the top button of his coat undone, his eyes blue eyes appearing almost as dark as the navy blue he wore.

The remnants of dinner sat in front of them – neither had eaten much.

"This isn't what I expected," she relented, crossing her right leg over her left. She also wore the blue duty uniform – with the addition of the tactical belt and holstered sidearm. Mason had ordered the addition of sidearms after the conversation with Nelson. The possibility of being boarded was too high. It made the crew anxious seeing armed officers strolling the decks.

"It never is," Mason said, looking at her and smiling sadly. "At any level of command you encounter stuff you didn't think you'd have to deal with. It's maddening, really."

"So I've heard," she said, draining her wine. "Do you ever get used to it?"

"No," he said, adjusting his own belt and sighing. "You don't."

He looked at her as he replied. She had broken her gaze with him – her green eyes burned holes in the carpet. She looked, as she always did to him, absolutely stunning in her uniform. Mason found himself staring at the buttons on her uniform jacket – knowing exactly how easily they came undone.

"So were you going to ask me about the CAP or just undress me with your eyes all night?" she asked, smiling at him.

_Busted._

Mason smirked in his confident way, "You'll fly the CAP the way you want to. I trust you to do that. I was just looking for an excuse to get you in my cabin again."

She uncrossed her legs, making a point to press them against his under the dinner table.

"You know you don't have to ask," she said.

"Thought I'd at least make some excuse," he said, leaning on the table towards her.

"Nice of you," she whispered, leaning in and brushing his lips with hers.

"I don't suppose we've given any thought to where this is going," he said quietly, contemplating the thought.

"Do we have to?" she asked, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips.

"No, of course not," his eyes grew heavy with her touch. "But all hell's going to break loose when this gets out. Your dad will go ballistic."

"He goes ballistic when lunch is late," Artemis said, kissing him lightly again. "He'll just have to live with it."

"What about the crew?" Mason wondered aloud, frowning.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, "Well what does Emory have to say?"

Mason blinked, swallowing hard. "Lieutenant Commander Emory doesn't know anything about this."

"Bullshit, Bishop," she called correctly, narrowing her eyes and smiling. "He's your best friend. You tell him everything."

_Busted again_.

"He loves the idea," Mason relented. "He's always been trying to set me up, never to any success."

"Thank the gods," she said. "If he loves it, then the crew will, too."

"It's not professional, in the slightest," Mason mumbled.

She stood, taking his hands in hers. He obliged.

"We're risking a lot," she said, walking backwards to his bedroom, still holding his hands. "I understand if this isn't something you want to do."

Mason hated the fact that she was playing this double standard. She looked at him, her eyes smoldering, dragging him backwards to his own bedroom – while at the same time saying he was completely free to discontinue the relationship. She knew him too well. She knew he couldn't resist.

"That's not something we have to decide right now," he said.

The backs of her legs hit the edge of Mason's bed. The ship was again fading away around them. Mason pushed her lightly backwards. She sat down gently on his plush bed as he leaned down and kissed her. She began to melt – as did he. He kissed her with meaning, with purpose. Not forcefully, but with passion. Not with lust, but with desire.

He grasped the back of her neck with his right hand. With his left, he brushed the inside of her left leg with his fingers. They travelled slowly upward until they arrived at her sidearm. In one swift motion, he un-holstered the weapon, ejected the magazine, and pressed the slide against the wooden edge of the bed – jettisoning the bullet in the chamber. He tossed the empty gun away.

She smiled in the kiss – quickly undoing his gun belt. She reached to an area just north of his right knee – quickly relieving the ship's commanding officer of his sidearm. She grabbed the belt of his uniform pants, and pulled forcefully to her – causing him to lose his balance and land crash-land on her.

He savored the feeling of her body beneath him. They both kicked out of their boots unceremoniously – the discarded footwear landing on the deck with four loud thumps.

As she had done just a few nights previously, she assisted him out of the high-collared uniform jacket bearing the glinting insignia of commander. She again took in the sight of his torso – clad in the form-fitting tank tops. She pressed a hand against his chest, and forced him into his back. She straddled his hips, tugging at the hem of his remaining shirts with desperation. He allowed himself to be relieved of them.

She almost moaned, running her hands down his firm chest and flat stomach – his skin fragrant with the smell of his cologne. It reminded her of the smell of the wilderness on Caprica. She bent down and kissed his chest – relishing the taste of his skin. She smiled as she felt something stir beneath her hips.

He almost shuddered, feeling her lips on his chest. He quickly removed her jacket and threw it to places unknown. He then stripped her tank tops off of her – quickly, aggressively. Mason laid back and beheld her figure in the dim light shining through his cabin's window. Her lightly tanned skin glowed – making her trim torso appear almost angelic. She wasn't too skinny, her figure curved in flawless symmetry - defining the word perfection for the commander. Her chest struggled against the military issue black sports bra she wore. Her hair cascaded down around her shoulders – framing her face beautifully. She smiled and almost giggled as she saw Mason ogling her figure.

"You act like you've never seen a woman before, Bishop," she whispered, pressing herself against him – adrenaline flooding their bodies as they felt skin brush against skin.

"I've seen women before, but never a goddess," Mason said as he attacked her neck with his lips. She tasted almost sweet – an intoxicating scent of something floral and vanilla emanated from her – causing Mason's thoughts to completely disorganize. He acted now on feeling – on core instinct. They had arrived at a place where feeling and instinct were more important than cognitive thinking. Neither party cared as they assisted each other out of their pressed uniform pants.

They rolled again, each acting off the other's move. Partly because they were both experienced pilots, reacting to the other. But also because their need for words had ceased – they were slowly becoming one – one consciousness, one thought, and one feeling.

Mason slid his hands along her sides, carefully removing her sports bra. He fell for her one thousand times over again as he drank in her image underneath him – her hair splashed over his pillows, wearing nothing but dog tags.

She, in turn, delighted in the feeling of being rid of her clothing. Her skin was alight with sensation – the soft sheets beneath her – Mason's body above her. There was no hiding his desire any longer. She glided her hands around his hips – removing his undergarments. She then grasped him lightly, drawing an audible gasp. She felt his pulse – his carnal desire to be with her. The thought of which caused a rush of blood to travel through her body. Her heart pounded in her head – the only sound she was able to hear aside from his breathing.

Her touch on him was enough to make Mason forget his own name. He was now seizing the backs of her strong thighs with force, begging to be let in. He ran his calloused hands along her smooth legs, exploring her every last inch – his mind long gone elsewhere.

She guided him to her, grasping the back of his neck with her free hand. He lowered himself to his elbows. She could feel the heat radiating off his body – as if the man was quite literally on fire.

He entered her slowly, the very feeling of which Mason could not describe in any language, written or spoken. He inhaled sharply.

She bit into his muscled shoulder, willing herself with every fiber of her being not to cry out in pleasure.

Mason decided in that moment that he enjoyed the inside of Artemis much more than the outside. She was warm and compact around him. He knew instantly that he would never leave – he would remain here until time itself ended – and still, he would be there. No one, human or god, would come between them.

She almost writhed in pleasure as thousands of nerves tingled with pure ecstasy as he entered her. Artemis felt as though she were floating though time – feeling sensations that had no name. Time elongated – moments were stretched – seconds became years as he took the control she was losing.

She closed her eyes - vision not being a necessity. Mason placed a hand under her arched back, drawing her to him. He pressed his body into hers as he thrust into her repeatedly. She lost control of her hands – they ran over his body, though his hair, over her own body. Mason took both of them gently in his and in one motion forced them over her head – pressing forcefully down. He was in complete command now – of her, his cabin, his deck, and his ship.

She didn't care. Artemis had given up control of her body seemingly years ago. She writhed underneath him, sensations building upon one another – searching for a release, like flood waters cascading repeatedly against a weakened dam.

Mason had ceased to know anything except his need to be inside of her. He tried vehemently to be further and further inside – electricity building in both his mind and deep inside his core. His grip on her wrists tightened, and his hand that was placed in the small of her back continued to force her to him – the muscles of his arm straining to make her body literally one with him.

She felt her wrists locked in his grip and his fingers digging into the small of her back. She squeezed his pelvis with her legs – not knowing if she could take more. The cascading crash of sensation upon sensation made her lose any sense of place and time – any sense of being. She wished for it to cease and to never cease in the same heartbeat.

Mason felt himself reach a precipice. Every muscle in his body tensed – he gritted his teeth, burying his face in her neck as he climaxed.

She wrapped her legs around his back as every sensation and feeling came crashing down violently, like a thousand Viper launches rolled into one full speed crash landing. The rush of feeling was indescribable – unlike any feeling derived from any drug. She moaned despite herself.

Mason exhaled what felt like a thousand breaths. Every nerve in his body tingled. He collapsed on to her – feeling her heart beat though her chest – and she feeling his. He laid on top of her, breathing heavily, feeling their skin meld together.

Artemis wrapped her arms around him, gripping his perspiring body and holding it against her own. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, kissing his chest.

He slowly gathered his thoughts. In what seemed like an eternity, he rose to his elbows and stared down at her flushed face. He blinked, turning his head to one side, looking at her as if it were for the first time all over again.

She looked up at him, touching the side of his face gently with her palm. She felt a need to say so many things to him, so many feelings needing to be conveyed. But words failed her, as they did him. She, instead, pulled him to her again, and kissed him.

Mason kissed her in return, enfolding her in his embrace. The mix of emotions running through his head were indescribable – passion, confidence, love, and elation. All in one. The toll of which was exhaustion – creeping slowly over his body and mind.

Artemis closed her eyes and laid her head against his chest. While indeed she did appreciate being in complete control of her world at all times – the safety she felt while locked in his embrace was something that she had not often had the chance to enjoy. Nothing could touch her here – not with him. Whatever unknowns the future brought upon them, she could face them untroubled.

Or rather, they would face them, untroubled, together.

She smiled at this thought as they both drifted into unconsciousness.

"_Revile, Revile – Battlestar _Aria_ morning hands report to duty stations. Revile, revile, time now zero-five-thirty."_

"Frak," Mason whispered, his eyes open the moment the wireless speaker crackled. He blinked momentarily, remembering that he was, in fact, on board a Battlestar. His Battlestar. And that he was due to watch in thirty minutes.

He then inhaled a familiar scent. He smiled as Artemis stirred from close beside him. She blinked slightly in the lukewarm light.

"Good morning, sir," she said. Obviously she had woken up enough to remember the fact that the person across from her was the ship's commanding officer. However, any other memories of the previous night were slow to come.

"Likewise, Captain," Mason cracked.

"Oh," Artemis mumbled, a smile forming. "Hi."

"Hey," Mason said, softly kissing her. She fell back into bed, her hair splashing everywhere as Mason bid her the good morning he really wanted to convey.

"Mmmm," she hummed as Mason broke away from her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. "Come back."

"I've got watch in thirty," he said, stretching in a vain attempt to work out the permanent stiffness that had worn its way into most of his joints. "And you have a CAP to fly in in an hour."

"I know," she muttered. She opened her eyes and drank in the sight of Mason walking to the shower.

Mason leaned over his small sink and examined his own face in the mirror.

_You know this is on another level now, Bishop. Great frakking job._

He shook his head and stepped into the shower. The ultra-efficient shower head installed there spewed a hardly satisfying amount of warm water – but such was life in the military. Mason sighed and let the near-scalding water run down his back.

He smiled despite himself, however, when Artemis slipped around the curtain and joined him in the small shower stall. She smiled as well, pinning him up against the wall and kissing him.

"I understand your concern, Garrett, but we can't put pilot's training on hold simply because we're under threat. I'm not saying we need to get involved in major war games here," Mason said to his XO. "But there's no reason we can't be doing combat maneuvering or the like."

"I know," Emory said, leaning against the nav table with his arms folded. "I know. I just don't want all our birds out there when that frakking ship jumps into our airspace again. It'll be hell getting the nuggets landed and launching our fighters at the same time."

"We need to be that good," the commander said, taking a long gulp of coffee. "We're at war. Maybe not by official decree of the colonies, but we are. So we must act accordingly."

"Why do you always have to be right?" Garrett smirked at the CO.

"A gift from the gods, I must say," Mason cracked in return.

Emory laughed at that. Something was different about the commander this morning – but he couldn't quite place what it was. While Mason was the most confident man that Emory knew, he seemed to be exuding a particular swagger this morning that reminded Emory of the days when they flew together on the _Cathedral_. Mason was smirking and wisecracking like the pilot he was. Ever since his promotion up through the command ranks, Emory had witnessed Mason lose some of the swagger in lieu of cold, calculating confidence. A bit more reserved, and a bit more stoic. And while Mason was an effective commander in this right – Emory firmly believed that Bishop operated the best when he was flying by the seat of his pants – making snap decisions on the fly. Emory had, over the years, witnessed absolutely mind-boggling actions taken by the commander that were more than a bit questionable at the time – but ended up working flawlessly. The man was good, plain and simple. And when he had his confidence about him – like he did today – he was unstoppable.

"Good coffee this morning, commander?" Lieutenant Commander Garrett "Angel" Emory asked. He saw right through the commander. He knew what had happened – exactly what was making him glow with confidence. But for sake of the crew, he kept the secret.

"_Aria_'s finest," said Commander Scott "Bishop" Mason. "So we'll proceed on with the trainings we had scheduled. But I see your point, commander. I think we'll wait a few days until we're closer to the shipyards."

Emory nodded, "Agreed, sir."

"Good. I'll take the conn," Mason said, breaching protocol slightly by offering the salute first. It was a sign of respect to his XO – a sign of deep trust. It said, simply, that their roles could be reversed at that very moment, and nothing would change.

Emory returned the salute, "I am relieved, sir. The commander has the conn."

"So in a few days' time we'll be resuming active combat training," Artemis announced in briefing with a quick glance at her notes.

"Ma'am, if I may, isn't that a bit risky considering the situation we're in?" said a voice from the seats.

"Well, yeah," Artemis looked up from the podium. "But this is the fleet. This is what we do, in case you were sick the day in the basic when they talked about our whole purpose as a finely tuned instrument of warfare."

This drew a couple snickers from the gathered squadron.

"All right, button it. We've got some intel on the _Odyssey_ here, because apparently we're in touch with the people who built it," the CAG continued, dimming the lights in the briefing room and bringing up the projector screen.

"Sir, I don't want to sound pessimistic here," Hopkins said, adjusting his gun belt. "But I find it strange that we haven't encountered the _Odyssey_ for some time now."

"Because we're a prime target for an enemy vessel," Mason finished for the captain. "Right?"

"Well, sir, I –"

"Let's not bullshit, we're sitting ducks," Mason said matter-of-factly. "If I were looking for a good target, we'd be it."

"It makes me nervous, sir," Hopkins said, quieter now. His hazel eyes narrowed. "I think it's making a lot of the crew nervous, too."

"Something that we have to live with," the commander sighed, looking out of the solar shield at black space. "We have no idea what's happening aboard the _Odyssey_ right now. Is it Commander Greene at the helm? Is it pirates? Or maybe Cylons?"

An uneasy silence fell over the CIC with the commander's last query.

This did not go unnoticed to Mason, "We need to consider all possibilities, people. I'm telling you as much as I know right now – and that's not much. It's a pretty bent situation all the way around."

The majority of those gathered in CIC remained silent, their eyes locked to their particular station.

"I'll try and commune with the admiralty later today and see if I can get us any more information," Mason said, strolling slowly around the CIC. "And I'll let you all know what we find out. Until then, I still expect only excellence from everyone here. You have all performed well up to this point – and we're all still alive for that reason. Continue that, and we live. Fail, and we die. Pretty simple stuff, guys."

"So say we all," Hopkins said, quietly.

"So say we all," repeated the staff.

Mason stopped walking, facing the solar shield. He buried his unease deep within him – lest it spread like a malignant virus among his crew. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders wide and square, and his eyes exuding pride.

"So say we all," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

As always my humble thanks goes to you, reader, for your time invested in this story. With so many excellent stories out there with such much talented writing, I'm honored that you're taking the time to read this. And hang on, shit's about to get real…

* * *

6.

"Parker, that looks…that looks _amazing_," Artemis said, stopping mid-stride to examine the Viper before her.

She had thought that her particular Mark VII Viper had looked good before. It was, admittedly, hard to be spiteful towards the sleek, mean-looking fighters. The standard dark gray paint with the Colonial markings, along with the Valkyrie's logo on the nose generally drew both feelings of fear and awe from even the most seasoned pilots.

But now, Artemis stood staring at her finely tuned space superiority fighter, at a loss for words. The craft had been painted in a likeness of the goddess Artemis – clad in white, flowing robes with golden armor. Her face, under a shining gold helmet, was both beautiful and terrifying to behold as she eyed the knocked arrow on her drawn bow. The arrow itself ran almost the length of the fighter – right up to the nose. And, in accordance with the scriptures, the goddess's bow was in the likeness of a crescent moon.

"Um, thank you, ma'am," Petty Officer Parker shifted his weight nervously. "It did turn out well, I think."

"Well?" Artemis blinked, circling her Viper slowly. "It's more than 'well,' Parker. It's amazing. It really is. I don't know why the rest of the fleet doesn't do this."

"It was all the commander's idea, ma'am," Parker replied, following her. "He said it allows for better accountability during combat. You can look out your cockpit and see exactly who is out there, not just a bunch of Vipers flying around. You can then plan your evolving combat accordingly."

Artemis ran a hand over the goddess's face. The narrowed, focused eyes of the likeness were a brilliant shade of green.

"Parker, she has my eyes," the CAG smiled in spite of herself.

The young petty officer tried vainly not to blush, "Well, ma'am, I…"

Artemis turned to him, and hugged him warmly, kissing him on the cheek.

Parker about passed out.

"I'll have to tell the commander personally about this," she said, releasing the weak-kneed petty officer and jumping up on the ladder to the cockpit.

"No need," said Mason, who had somehow materialized on the spot.

"Sir," Parker hastily snapped to attention, throwing an over-enthusiastic salute.

Mason returned this, and then extended a hand toward the young enlisted man. Parker stared for a moment at the commander's hand, and then took it.

"You did well, Mr. Parker," Mason complimented, staring the young man straight in the eye, gripping his hand tightly. The young man was speechless.

"He means to say 'thank you, sir,'" Artemis giggled from the cockpit. "And that he is proud to work on your deck, sir, and on your Vipers, sir."

Mason laughed. He knew that the commander's presence on the deck was intimidating enough, much less the commander actually _speaking to_ one Petty Officer Third Class Parker.

To make things far more intimidating, Chief Rummel arrived, wiping grease off his hands.

"Well," Rummel said, sizing up Artemis's Viper. "Not bad at all."

"You've got a pretty talented hand here, Chief," Mason said, nodding to Parker, who had yet to still say a word.

"Yes, sir, it would seem so," Rummel agreed in his gravelly voice.

"Carry on, Mr. Parker. And you may want to casually mention to Miss Cornell that the commander personally approves of your work," Mason said, matter-of-factly, glancing over in the direction of a young female petty officer who had made no attempt to hide the fact that she was very much interested in the young Parker.

"Y-yes, sir," Parker said, turning a violent shade of scarlet, saluting with haste. He then proceeded to disappear completely in rapid fashion.

"No hiding anything from you, commander," Rummel laughed.

"You run a good deck, chief," Mason said. "However, it's kind of hard not to notice two kids when they start falling all over each other like that."

"I can put a stop to it, if you want, sir," the chief of the deck replied, folding his arms and leaning on an ammo crate.

"I don't see a need to," Mason mused. "It isn't hurting anything. And it's not like they'd listen to us anyway, chief. It's hard to keep two people from falling for each other. Much less keep it a secret on a Battlestar."

"Indeed it is, sir," said the senior enlisted man, nodding. "Indeed it is."

Mason turned around and looked up at Artemis, who had been leaning on the side of her cockpit, taking in the conversation. She gave him a look.

"What?" Mason pressed.

She narrowed her eyes, smiling at him.

Mason smirked, realizing what he had said.

She held her gaze with him for a moment longer before donning her helmet and beginning her start-up checks.

The commander kept a straight face despite the glowing feeling he had deep in his chest. He stepped back as the towing vehicle hooked up to Artemis's Viper.

Which was when the call for action stations was made.

Artemis heard the call on the wireless, and wheeled around in her craft in time to see the commander sprinting down the deck.

"Ok, Valkyries, that's our cue, show some hustle," she said into the wireless.

"_Artemis, what's going on?"_ Corndog's voice buzzed.

"Don't know, but we're about to find out," she replied as the launch tube closed behind her.

* * *

Mason didn't stop sprinting until he arrived at the CIC. In an instant, his mind took a picture. The dradis showed a large contact in front of them – spewing out smaller contacts by the dozen. Hopkins, Emory, and Forte were all yelling into their respective phones. Time began its familiar sensation of elongating. O'Reilly was giving launch orders while simultaneously keeping the pattern clear for non-essential craft to land. Arnold sat at the helm, his eyes glued forward out of the solar screen.

Which is where Mason beheld the terrifying shape of the _Odyssey_ – close enough for him to read the letters on the side of her launch pod. She was launching seemingly every squadron she had. Mason's eyes tracked along her hull – seeing the massive artillery cannons pointed seemingly at his own chest. Claxons wailed, people yelled, the ship hummed beneath him.

"_Silence!"_

No one had ever heard the commander bark as he had. There was, indeed, instant silence in the CIC.

Mason's jaw was set, his face frowning deeply, his brow furrowed.

Emory and Hopkins slowly placed their wirelesses on their receivers. Mason strode slowly down into the CIC, his eyes locked on the rapidly approaching Battlestar.

"Mr. Arnold, all stop."

"Sir?"

Mason glared at the Lieutenant – his eyes flashing and smoldering.

"Mr. Arnold, you are relieved. Mr. Hopkins, all stop if you please," Mason growled.

"Aye, sir," Hopkins replied, quietly. He strode over to the helm, where Arnold gave up his seat without protest. He left the CIC in a state of shock, his face white as paper.

Mason walked slowly up to the solar shield, all eyes in the CIC locked on him.

"If they wanted to kill us, we'd already be dead," Mason said to no one in particular, his voice a deep baritone. "Mr. Forte, are they attempting hails?"

"Yes, sir," Forte replied.

"On the speakers."

"Aye, sir."

Mason walked slowly back over to the nav table, picking up the wireless.

"This is Commander Scott Mason of the Battlestar _Aria_. To whom am I speaking?"

"_Scott, it's good to hear your voice."_

"James," Mason replied, his voice still razor sharp. "It's good to hear you, too. Would you mind telling me what all of this is about?"

Emory's face darkened as he looked to Hopkins, then to Mason. Mason looked at Emory in return, his expression a mix of emotion. It was indeed Commander James Greene at the wheel of the _Odyssey_.

"_It isn't appropriate over such crude means, Scott. I must see you in person."_

Mason's grip tightened on the wireless. Emory slowly shook his head from side to side, his face stone. Mason nodded ever so slightly.

"I don't think I can do that under the present circumstances, James," Mason said.

"_Of what circumstances do you speak?"_

Emory muttered, "Is he frakking mental?"

"You've launched every squadron you have, Scott. Every gun you have is pointed at me. And just days ago, you tried to blow me away with nuclear weapons. I'm a little concerned about that," Mason said, his voice calm.

"_This will end appropriately in time, my friend."_

"Yes, it will, if we can just talk about this," Mason said.

* * *

Artemis held her position above and slightly in front of the _Aria_'s bow. A scant kilometer away, the entire air wing of the _Odyssey_ held tight formation, staring her and her squadron down.

"_Artemis, what the frak is going on?"_

"Guys, I don't know, stay cool, okay?" Artemis said, trying to hide the quiver in her voice.

"_We are gonna die."_

"Shut the frak up!" Artemis barked. "I know how it looks, okay? Mason will fix this. Just stay cool!"

She hoped with all her heart she was right.

* * *

"_Talk? Scott, the time for talking is over. The time for judgment is at hand."_

Emory's eyes were wide as he stared at Mason, "He's completely section eight, commander."

"Clearly," Mason replied, covering the receiver with his hand. "I need options, guys, and quickly."

Mason uncovered the receiver, "James, would you mind terribly telling me what it is you're talking about? Judgment day? I don't follow you."

"_Our final judgment is at hand, Scott. The gods have granted me a vision. A vision of the apocalypse. And it is here – it starts with me, and my ship. The gods have willed me as their instrument of their fury. You must understand."_

"Oh my gods he's a madman," Hopkins breathed. The collected crew of the CIC was wide-eyed in shock.

"I'm afraid I don't," Mason replied to him. "I'm not much of a religious type, James. You know that. You know me. Maybe you could elaborate?"

Mason's heart was beating with unusual force. He tried vainly to think as he bought more time.

"Garrett, anything?" Mason whispered to him.

Emory shook his head, placing his hands on the nav table and leaning hard against his arms.

"_Even those not faithful to the gods know of the day of judgment, Commander. A day when all that which is evil is destroyed, so that all that is good will flourish. All of this has happened before, Scott. And all of this will happen again."_

"So scriptures say," Mason agreed. _Think, Bishop, think!_ "But who are we, as men, to determine when judgment comes?"

"_Have you not heard what I have said? The gods themselves have willed me as the means of conveyance for their divine will. Zeus himself came to me and told me what I must do." _

"And what is it he has charged you with, James?" Mason said. He covered the receiver again, hissing towards Forte, "Get Nelson on the horn right now! Pipe him into this and tell him to send the cavalry!"

"Commander, we're at least ten jumps from Caprica," Emory said. "We'll hardly have time to get shots off before Greene wises up and blows us out of here."

"Just get them our coordinates, I don't care how you do it!" Mason breathed.

"_I will destroy the colonies, Scott, and her peoples. One by one, until the scourge of humanity is no more."_

* * *

"_He's not serious…is he?"_

Artemis stared straight ahead, her face unmoving. Silently, she ran scenarios through her head as to how exactly to engage the several dozen fighters hovering in front of her. Every one she thought of ended rather badly.

"_Artemis, can't we have the _Aria _launch the rest of the Vipers?"_ inquired Corndog.

She glanced to her right – seeing the pilot glance in her direction. She shook her head.

"They'd blow us out of the sky before they even cleared the tubes," Artemis sighed. The thought had crossed her mind – leaving just as quickly as it had appeared. "They caught us with our pants down, guys."

"_That's no shit."_

"_We're seriously gonna lose this one, aren't we?"_

"Enough with the pessimism," Artemis sighed. "We'll get out of this, okay?"

She wished she was right. But with each passing minute it looked more and more likely that this was indeed _Aria_'s last cruise. The CAG gritted her teeth in frustration. _Move, and we're dead. Don't move, and we're dead._

Every Viper pilot knew, as she did, that each hop could be their last. A malfunction, a random surprise attack, the one time a mistake was made – anything could spell immediate disaster for those who took it upon themselves to serve as pilots. Some pilots went so far as to assume every assignment, every mission, was their last; to fly with the understanding that they weren't coming home. For some, it helped them fly better – they pushed to the edge of the envelope, taking chances some people wouldn't even dream of. They flew with serenity, knowing that the next second would be their last.

However, she wasn't one of those pilots. Not anymore, at least. Her skill and ability in combat came from her confidence. She knew she was the best gun in the fleet. To try and best her would be foolish. While admittedly it was a cocky attitude to have, she held on to it – savoring the feeling of being the edge of the razor. Some pilots would pressure her on the issue – to which she would reply,

_How can you die if you're the best?_

* * *

"I can't let you do this, James, you know that," Mason sighed into the wireless, maintaining his demeanor.

"_I know that, my friend. I know. Which is why I have been hunting you, all this time."_

Emory drew himself up, the mixed emotions of shock, anger, and frustration on his face slowly melting away into placidity. He knew it was over.

Quiet sighs sounded from around the CIC. Many of the crew took of their headsets, exchanging looks with one another. The crew of the _Aria_ had never been accused of being daft – they knew full well they had been bested. They slowly began to accept the fact that the ultimate sacrifice would be paid today.

Mason saw this happening. He looked at Emory, who folded his arms and smiled sadly at his friend.

Which is when a small switch was flipped in Mason's mind.

"Mr. Forte, scramble scripted message to Artemis direct," Mason said quietly.

"Go, sir," Forte said, his brows knit in confusion.

"Message begins, 'Wait for signal. Do not come home to nest. Send rest of birds home. Engage first navigational sensor of opportunity just prior to target jumping. Bishop.' End message," Mason whispered.

"Sir?" Forte asked.

"We don't have time for this, ensign, send it," Mason muttered.

"Aye, sir."

Mason keyed the wireless again, taking a deep breath.

"Then we'll see you back at the colonies, where I'll be waiting for you. Along with the rest of the fleet. Recall the fighters! Begin FTL jump!"

He barked the last orders while still keyed over the wireless.

"Sir, if I may," Emory said. "The FTL drive is still broken."

"Garrett, I know, just spin the drive, please," Mason pleaded.

Emory shook his head, "I sure as hell hope you know what you're doing."

"It'll work," Mason nodded.

The XO barked the orders.

* * *

A small beep on the dradis caught the attention of Artemis. She read the message:

_Wait for signal. Do not come home to nest. Send rest of birds home. Engage first navigational sensor of opportunity just prior to target jumping. Bishop._

"What the frak," she whispered to herself.

"_Ma'am! The _Aria_ is spinning her FTL drive! We've been ordered home."_

"Then get your asses back there!" Artemis snarled over the wireless.

"_Wilco, Artemis!"_

She slammed her throttle forward and looped wide around the _Aria_. She kept her eyes locked on the _Odyssey_ and her squadrons.

"_Aria_, Artemis," she said. "Looks like all of the _Odyssey_'s birds are going home."

"_Artemis, actual. I copy – stick to the plan."_

"Wilco, actual," she replied, hoping to hell that Mason knew what he was doing.

* * *

"Sir!" Hopkins piped up, throwing his headset on haphazardly. "The-"

"I see it," the commander said, his eyes on the dradis. The dradis showed the swarm of fighters making their way back to the _Odyssey_.

"_You won't have any colonies to go home to, Bishop. What you're doing is foolish."_

"We'll see about that, Kilo," Mason replied, using the commander's callsign as he had done.

"The _Odyssey_ is spinning her FTL!" Hopkins sang.

"Good."

Artemis swung wide, bringing up the rear of the landing pattern.

"_Combat landings authorized, Valkyries," _the LSO informed them on the wireless.

She watched as the first few Vipers touched their skids to the deck, then focused her attention back to the _Odyssey_. She banked wide again, watching the remainder of the squadron touch down. Rolling hard, she flew her Viper straight in to the wake of the _Aria_.

"Actual, Artemis, I'm ready," she radioed.

"Retract the pods," Mason said.

Emory shrugged, looking at the utter confusion on the crew's faces, "Do it."

"Sir, Artemis isn't aboard," O'Reilly said, a note of panic in her voice.

"I know," Mason acknowledged. "Retract the pods."

* * *

Flying almost directly behind the _Aria_ – Artemis saw the pods begin their slow grind inward. She glanced over the glow of the sublight engines, seeing the pods of the _Odyssey_ retracting in almost a mirror image.

She took a deep breath, slamming her throttle forward as she exhaled.

The likeness of the goddess Artemis rocketed down the spine of the _Aria_ – hugging the curvature of the ship dangerously close. She slowly fell comfortably into a mental state that few people had ever experienced – the feeling of being one with a piece of machinery. So much so that she felt her Viper as an extension of her body. Every wire, hydraulic, and screaming engine part was connected to her through her hands. She smiled, feeling her confidence swell.

"It's up to her now," the commander spoke quietly in the CIC.

"Oh, my gods," Emory's eyes went wide with realization. "Scott, you're a genius."

"Only if it works," Mason said, his brow deeply lined.

Artemis cleared the bow of the _Aria_ with blinding speed. She afforded a quick glance town at her dradis – seeing that indeed, her small craft now showed as a separate contact. During the time where she had flown tightly behind the _Aria_, her tiny blip on the dradis blended well under the shadow of the hulking Battlestar. It appeared to anyone looking at a dradis that she had landed.

_Guess not, huh guys?_

She arced wide from the starboard side of the _Aria_, coming up directly on the stern of the _Odyssey_. Her eyes raked along the hull of the identical Battlestar, looking for a small outcropping along the ribbed hull.

_Gotcha._

She saw the small protrusion on the port side of the alligator-shaped nose of the _Odyssey_. A navigational sensor. She armed the two missiles she carried with her.

"Come on, lock," she implored her Viper. She knew the jump was imminent.

Her HUD searched vainly for a target to lock on to.

"Frak!" she swore. She rolled her fighter close to the hull of the _Odyssey_, lining up her nose directly with her target. She loosed the two missiles and veered sharply away.

* * *

"_Viper Zero-One! Fox Two!"_

Artemis's voice rang out over the wireless. Mason looked earnestly out of the solar shield – seeing the tiny fighter speed away from the looming mass of the _Odyssey_ – and two distinct frozen vapor trails speeding along the hull of the enemy ship.

"Come on," Mason whispered.

A relatively small explosion, considering the size of the ship, belched out from the side of the _Odyssey_, just before the massive ship disappeared from view.

"Yes!" Emory yelled, clapping Mason on the shoulder. A general cheer went up from the crew.

"Disengage the FTL! Get Artemis back on board and resume course to Scorpion, ahead full!" Mason shouted above the din.

"Aye, sir!" Emory said, repeating the orders.

Mason didn't share in the crew's elation. He knew that two missiles from one Viper was just an annoyance to a Battlestar. To truly inflict damage on a ship, one needed heavy guns and ship to ship missiles. However, for sake of his men and women, he accepted the handshakes, slaps on the back, and gruff bear hugs offered to him. Mason knew that the crew was mostly just glad to be alive.

"Commander, please," Emory said as the din was dying down. "How the hell did you know that would work?"

"I didn't," Mason shrugged. The crew turned their attention back to him, their faces rapt.

"Why that target, sir?" Hopkins asked.

"Listen," the commander sighed, rubbing his face. "It was a huge gamble. I wagered that the _Odyssey_ didn't know that our FTL drive is busted. I bluffed, and they folded. Artemis's shot was to one of their navigational sensors. They'll be able to compensate for the loss, of course. All we did was effectively poke them in the eye as they jumped away. They'll be back, in time. And pissed. Commander Greene will not make the same mistake again. When they find us again – and it is only a matter of when - that's when the real fight will be on."

The crew's elation was sobered somewhat as they realized the truth in the commander's words.

"With that said," Mason continued, "It was an outstanding job done by all. It looked bad there for a minute. But we're still here. We have two and a half days to Scorpion. Let's finish this hard and get back into the fight. Deck's yours, Garrett."

"Aye, sir," Emory smirked confidently as Mason made his way out of the CIC.

* * *

Artemis brought her bird in gently, the skids touching down lightly before taking the full weight of the Viper.

She smiled as she saw the rest of the squadron, and most of the air wing, gathered on the deck, bottles of champagne in their hands, all of them beaming. An enormous cheer arose when she opened her cockpit and took her helmet off.

"Hell of a shot, Artemis!" said a beaming Raven.

"Greatest shit I've even seen!"

Corks were popped noisily and champagne began spraying as the CAG descended the ladder. Although she knew the damage inflicted on the enemy ship was relatively minor, she couldn't help but to smile and celebrate with her air wing. It felt good to be on the upper hand for a change – to have the final word in a conflict.

"Get the gun camera downloaded!" roared the enormous frame of Scooter – holding a bottle of champagne in both hands.

"Artemis! Get to the ready room! Gun camera party!"

"In a minute!" she called, accepting the _Aria_ Top Gun stein shoved into her hand. She took a drink of champagne before sloshing the rest of it on the collected pilots.

* * *

"That's the story so far, sir," Mason concluded.

"_That's unbelievable, Scott. Absolutely brilliant on your part," _said the shocked voice of Nelson on the other end of the wireless.

"We were lucky," the commander replied.

"_Sometimes luck is the only deciding factor. We'll have the _Triton_ waiting for you there," _Nelson said. _"Can you hold out until then?"_

"I hope so, sir. Wherever the _Odyssey_ surfaces next is going to be one bad spot to be. Greene isn't a fool. He'll come back looking for blood," Mason replied.

"_You're right, as always, Scott. I wish I could send you an escort. Hell, I wish I could be there myself. I'm sorry you have to go through this,"_ Nelson sounded genuinely remorseful.

"I understand where we're at, Admiral," said Mason. "We'll be ok. Now that we know what Greene is after, we can plan better. It's not us he's after, it's the colonies themselves. They're the priority, as always."

"_You're going to command this fleet someday with that wisdom, you know that, Scott?"_

"Gods I hope not, sir," Mason laughed in spite of the situation. "With all my heart I hope not."

"_Which is why you'll be the man for the job. Good hunting, commander."_

"Thank you, sir," Mason gently placed the wireless in the receiver. He wished he had a better plan then to simply run for Scorpion. He felt he owed it to his crew to make something different – something better - happen.

Mason glanced up at a knock at his cabin door, "Yeah?"

Artemis crept in the room slowly, closing the door behind her. She was still in her flight suit, most of it dampened by the champagne shower she had received on the flight deck. Mason stood, a smile forming.

"Oh my gods, Bishop," she sighed, leaning her back against the back of his door.

Bishop walked over to her. He pinned her body to his door, kissing her passionately. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back, and wrapping her arms around his neck. Mason folded his arms around her waist, holding her tightly.

"That was a hell of a shot, young lady," Mason whispered, holding her tightly still.

"A hell of a plan," she replied, nuzzling her face into his chest. "I can't believe we didn't get blown out of the sky."

"I can't either," he said, finally letting emotion ebb into him. Had someone asked him twenty minutes ago if he thought he would be in his cabin, holding Artemis like he was now, he wasn't sure if he could have said yes. He held her, and savored every breath he inhaled of her.

Not since the war had he felt so uneasy the prospect of losing someone in an instant. And, admittedly, he had not cared about anyone so deeply as to cause him to feel this way. He wondered if this made him soft – if it made him ineffective. He didn't think so – however every set of regulation, every book on effective command and leadership, and every predecessor before him told him that what he was doing would soon cloud his judgment.

For the moment, though, he disregarded all of that. And while still not a religious man, he offered a silent prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening to such things for this opportunity he had with Artemis. He pushed the thoughts of how close he had been to losing her out of his mind.

"I'm glad you're not dead, Bishop," she whispered to him, vocalizing in the classic blunt pilot's parlance what they were both thinking.

"I'm glad you're not dead, either," he replied.


	7. Chapter 7

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination

Ok, so I need to correct myself from my previous message, where I said that there is "such much talented" writing out there. It would seem so - excepting this scourged pen. As I'm sure you already knew, I meant to say "so much talented" writing. There. It's off my chest now.

Again my very humble thanks go to my subscribers, those who have generously taken their time to review, and to you, reader. Thanks for sticking with me, and with the _Aria.  
_

7.

"Here it is, here it is, waaaaiiiit for it," Scooter's voice trailed off as Artemis's gun camera footage replayed for the forty-seventh time in the darkened ready room.

The flickering image shot from the side of her fighter's nose showed exactly how close Artemis was flying next to the side of the _Odyssey_ – not to mention the breathtaking speed at which she had done so. Almost the entire air wing stood in the ready room – transfixed on the image.

"Holy frak, Artemis, you could've reached out and touched the damn thing," Raven said, sitting in a front row chair. Artemis stood, leaning against the wall with her arms folded, smiling more at her air wing's reactions than anything else. Raven, however, was right. The video continued, slowed down slightly by Scooter just for the effect. Artemis watched, again, as he small fighter passed over the towering letters from stern to bow – each letter twice the size of her Viper. The _Y-E-S-S-Y-D-O_ shown on the screen would have appeared as a blur had the video been playing at normal speed.

"That is so frakking cool," Corndog said in wonder. The video played on – showing Artemis clearing the launch pod of the enemy ship, buzzing the nose of the enemy Battlestar, and loosing her two missiles. Even after the forty-seventh time of viewing, collected "frak yeah's" went up from the pilots gathered when the camera showed the missiles impacting.

"You jocks just gonna sit around all day watching movies in class or get out there and fly?" said a voice from the back of the room.

Artemis looked over her shoulder, and then announced, "Commander on deck!"

The members of the air wing not standing leapt to their feet. Mason strode down the side aisle, banging a fist on the crest of Viper Squadron Three – the Vigilantes. Something he had always done as a pilot on the _Cathedral_ before flying. It was a hard habit to break.

"Captain, may I?" he asked in the direction of Artemis. It wasn't necessary, but it was a courtesy to ask the CAG to speak in the ready room – regardless of one's rank.

"Of course, sir," Artemis replied, perhaps a little stiffly.

Mason knew why, as did she. They silently conceded to each other to let the air wing make their own decisions.

"As you were," Mason said, stepping up to the podium. The pilots relaxed, most sitting – their attention forward at Mason.

He glanced behind him at the footage, "That's the way it's done, people. Well done, Artemis."

The air wing applauded, the formal congratulations now dispensed with. It was high praise indeed from Bishop.

"Ok," the commander continued. "We're a day and a half from the Scorpion ship yards, people. The reason we're still here is from the outstanding effort of everyone. Thank you, for that.

"We're going to need to stay sharp. As to the motives of the _Odyssey_ and her crew – no one can accurately comment on that. We must assume, though, that the entire crew is of the mindset of Commander Greene – and their objective is to completely destroy the colonies and the human race as we know it," Mason said, gravely. "The _Odyssey_ has some pretty good pilots in their wing. Not to mention the tactics that are going to be employed by the ship herself. Greene went to the same war college we all did. Our moves will be his moves. Deception, speed, and out of the box thinking are going to be needed if we will win the day."

The air wing was mostly silent, staring at their notepads.

"I've asked the CAG to begin a series of air combat maneuvering drills. We're gonna have some fun here, but the purpose is to brush up on dogfighting. We all know this. You're gonna have to be doing it better and cleaner than your enemy. Otherwise you will fail, and subsequently die. Questions?" Mason finished in his trademark style.

He looked around the room, feeling completely in his element as he stood behind the podium. He missed the days of doing this.

"Alright. Good hunting."

* * *

"Ok, Valkyries, this is the classic two on one," Artemis spoke into the wireless. "Using teamwork, two of our fighters single out a lone enemy fighter and destroy it. Straight out of the book. Corndog and I are first, we'll show you morons how it's done."

"_Who are we hunting?"_ crackled Buzz's voice over the comm.

"_Me,"_ came the simple reply.

Artemis knit her brow in confusion, looking over her shoulder in time to see a Viper blur past her cockpit glass.

"_Oh my gods it's Bishop!"_

"What the frak," Artemis whispered to herself. The Viper in front of her snapped the fasted hard six she had ever seen, landing nose to nose with her. A quick puff on the thrusters brought the side of it into view.

Even the seasoned CAG caught herself inhaling somewhat sharply at the terrifying image on the side of the Mark VII Viper floating gently in front of her. The side showed tattered, blood-red ceremonial robes clad around a figure of a weathered human skeleton. A large, tattered, ceremonial hat sat atop the glaring skull – the figure's arm was outstretched along the nose of the craft, ending in a pointed, bony finger.

On the very nose of the fighter, the crest of the 3rd Viper Squadron shone brightly. And in the cockpit, a smirking Commander Scott Mason glanced over at Artemis.

Artemis's emotions were more than a little conflicted at Bishop's arrival. Part of her conscience flared in anger at this sudden interruption of _her_ exercise. Another part brought a grim satisfaction in the chance to finally, _finally_ go up against Bishop – something she had wanted to do even before she knew who the man was. And yet, a third part of her was simply just happy to see him.

"Very well, Commander, you're on," Artemis returned the cocky smirk. She glanced to her right at Corndog, who looked like he was subject to losing his lunch at any point.

"_Thank you, Captain. Let's do this."  
_

* * *

Scooter literally kicked the door in to the junior officer's quarters – a place mostly reserved for the pilots.

"Gods, Scooter, easy on the equipment," Raven chided him from the card game table. Smoke hung lazily in the air as pilots watched, played, or simply lounged around reading or talking quietly.

"Artemis is taking on Bishop!" Scooter bellowed. "Right now!"

Cards, drinks, magazines, and other paraphernalia were instantly airborne as the rest of the collected air wing stampeded heavily out of the room – some sprinting for the observational lounge, others directly for CIC to have a direct look.

* * *

Bishop sank into his ejection seat, cherishing the feeling of having his Viper strapped to him once more. He rolled yet another blinding six, and laid his throttle down.

_Wow_ Artemis thought to herself. She had made the mistake of blinking. Bishop was now easily three klicks ahead of her – widening the gap with speed.

"Move it, Corndog!" she barked, slamming her throttle forward as she took off in pursuit.

Corndog quickly followed, shaking his head.

Bishop's fighter danced nimbly though the blackness. He knew that in order to gain advantage, he would have to use something besides empty space to lose his pursuers. He looked vainly towards the direction of Scorpion – seeing the planet as only a bright star in the distance. No go.

_What's your angle, Bishop?_ Artemis asked herself as she burned hotly towards the triangle-shaped dots that were Mason's engines.

Bishop fired his thrusters, turning sharply to the left, still with the throttle wide open. He locked his eyes on the _Aria_, still pressing onward towards Scorpion. His own ship would be his distraction. He adjusted his course, making directly for the Battlestar.

"Corndog, he's going for the ship!" Artemis called out, seeing Bishop bank hard back towards the _Aria_.

"_Roger, I see him, I'm on your right,"_ Corndog replied, turning with Artemis as she nosed her Viper around – not quite in as tight of an arc as Bishop was making. The wider arc would bring her in right behind Bishop.

_Except it's not gonna be that easy_ she thought to herself.

Bishop saw the two pursuing Vipers start on the intercept course. He smiled wryly to himself, continuing his course.

* * *

"News travels fast," Hopkins smiled as a variable herd of pilots stomped into the CIC.

"Sorry, sir," Scooter said, looking anxiously out of the solar screen.

"It's fine. No one's paying attention to what they're supposed to be doing, anyway, come on down," Hopkins said, sipping coffee.

The crew of the CIC was transfixed on the dogfight developing right in front of the ship. Many pressed their headsets into their ears while squinting out of the solar shield.

"Hey Steele, lower the ambient light of the CIC, please," Hopkins said over his shoulder to a warrant officer who was standing in at tactical.

"Aye, sir," Steele replied. The soft lighting of the CIC was darkened down, allowing the backdrop of black space to appear clearer in the solar shield.

Hopkins smiled. While it wasn't exactly protocol (_what was these days, anyway?)_ to do so, he felt the crew could be treated to a show. It was a rare moment of feeling at ease. He walked over to Forte's station, turning up the volume on the wireless speakers.

* * *

"Stay with me, Corndog! Ten seconds!" Artemis said, glancing out at her wing, happy to see Corndog flying tight with her.

"_Right with you, Artemis!"_

Mason smiled, seeing Artemis and Corndog play exactly into him. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing his two pursuers fall into a direct line behind him. The nose of the _Aria_ was closing fast on the three fighters.

Artemis fleetingly believed that it was this easy to beat Bishop. She flipped on her HUD, and selected her missiles. The dradis instantly began plotting a firing solution.

"Oh, frak," she said, looking up at the massive bow of the _Aria_ speeding towards them. She then realized Bishop's plan.

Bishop heard Artemis swear on the wireless, and smiled. He turned his attention back to the bow of his ship – only a half a kilometer away. In a single breath, he inverted his fighter and pulled up slightly on the stick, nosing his Viper _underneath_ the ship.

"_Oh shit!"_ Corndog yelled, realizing that he and Artemis were going too fast to emulate the maneuver.

"Break high, Corndog! Break, break!" Artemis screamed, pulling up hard. The lowered tips of her delta wings barely cleared the solar screen. Corndog had broken formation high and to the right – his course launching him over the port launch pod of the _Aria_. Artemis continued her flight down the spine of the ship – speeding to the stern.

She gritted her teeth and prepared to re-engage Bishop as soon as he cleared from under the ship. Her Viper rocketed her over the aft engines. She fired her aft thrusters and killed her throttle, allowing her nose to drop directly down while still maintaining forward flight. Now inverted, she looked for the form of Mason's fighter to clear the keel of the ship.

Except he didn't appear.

"_Frak! Artemis! Where is he?"_ Corndog's panicked voice rang over the wireless.

"I dunno!" she replied, snapping her head from side to side, looking vainly out of her cockpit. "Watch your six!"

"_I don't see him!"  
_

"On me!" she called, firing her engines again, steering her Viper underneath the mammoth ship.

* * *

"Holy shit!" Scooter and the rest of the collected people in the CIC visibly flinched as Artemis broke formation over the ship – terrifyingly closer than she had done her fly-by.

"Cancel collision alarm!" Hopkins called, smiling. Warrant Officer Steele silenced the blaring alarm.

* * *

Artemis streaked along the keel of the Battlestar – the belly of her fighter only meters from the belly of the ship. Her eyes raked back and forth, looking for Bishop.

"_Dradis is blank, Artemis,"_ Corndog said. He also flew inverted under the Battlestar, although not quite as close to the ship as Artemis did.

"Keep looking, he's here," Artemis replied, narrowing her eyes. She had slipped comfortably back into a fully combat-minded way of thinking. Mason was nothing to her now except a target.

Mason smirked as he saw the two Vipers pass by him underneath the ship. He turned on his helmet's illumination and disengaged the magnetic hold his Viper's skids had on the side of the _Aria_'s starboard launch pod. He fired his maneuvering thrusters slightly as he retracted his Viper's landing skids. This gently dropped him down underneath the ship, right behind the speeding Vipers containing Artemis and Corndog.

"_Gotcha,"_ said a familiar voice in Artemis's headset.

She wheeled around just as her Viper cleared the bow of the _Aria_, in time to see Bishop's engines flare to life.

"You motherfrakker," she growled.

"_Artemis, he's on our six!"_

"I'm aware of that, Corndog," she answered sardonically, rolling hard and pulling up, spinning hard and vertical again in front of the _Aria_.

Mason followed with speed, a feeling of placidity in his mind. To some, it appeared that he flew absent-mindedly, not really engaged. The reality was that flying was something that was so second-nature to him, it didn't require much conscious thought on his part. His body knew what to do before his mind did. On more than one occasion, Mason had only fully came back to himself once he had landed back on the deck. It was a result of countless hours spent in the cockpit and invaluable experience in combat.

"_Corndog, you and I've been over this. Three, two, one, GO!" _Artemis said over the tac. Mason's eyes narrowed. He now knew he was at a disadvantage.

Artemis looked over at her wingman, who nodded. They broke simultaneously, performing a thatch weave.

Mason's eyes tracked both Artemis and Corndog. He knew he could only pursue one – and he chose the weaker pilot in Corndog. He opted for a leading pursuit, aiming the nose of his Viper ahead of the turning Corndog.

Artemis looped wide, performing a classic Immelmann – finding herself high above the engagement. She looked down – seeing Mason close fast on Corndog. Pushing her stick down, she made straight for Mason's tail.

* * *

"What the frak is going on?" Emory grumbled, stepping into CIC with no less than a full liter of coffee in his hand. He glanced up, though the solar screen, and rubbed his eyes. _Bishop is out there flying!_

No one was paying close enough attention to even snap to as the XO stepped into the deck. He crept down the stairs into lower CIC quietly, not believing what he was seeing.

"Well, Bishop's putting on a clinic out there," he remarked.

Hopkins wheeled around, "Attention on deck!"

"No, as you all were," Emory gestured with his coffee. "Pilots especially, pay attention. You might learn something."

* * *

Mason glanced behind him, seeing Artemis diving for him. As she did this, Corndog threw himself into rolling scissors – Mason had no choice but to comply with Corndog's maneuver – following him inversely in a dizzying circle.

Corndog, however, had seemingly forgotten who was flying behind him. In an instant, Bishop gauged the circumference of the circles Corndog was spinning in. He broke his pattern , aiming for the center, and punched it.

"Uh oh," Artemis whispered, watching what was happening.

* * *

Emory, a pilot with more hours logged in a Viper than the average career pilot, also recognized what was happening. Having flown on Bishop's wing for years, he knew what was happening next.

He smirked, turning to the transfixed pilots observing the fray, "You guys ever hear of the Bishop's Hat?"

* * *

Bishop rocketed through the circles being performed by Corndog. Instantly, he was level with the circling junior pilot. He threw his Viper into a roll, lining up the top of his cockpit with Corndog's, all while maintaining speed.

"Hey, Corndog," he said quietly into the wireless.

Corndog looked up, seeing Mason's face literally meters from him, looking at him through his cockpit.

"_Holy frak!"_

Mason grinned, firing his aft thrusters, bringing his nose perpendicular to the length of Corndog's Viper – at this distance, it didn't take long for the dradis to lock.

A shrill scream in Corndog's cockpit told him that Bishop had locked on.

"_Frak me twice! Gods!"_ Corndog's voice was laced with frustration. He killed his engines, allowing the Viper to float aimlessly.

Bishop disengaged quickly from the now "dead" Corndog, and sped away, Artemis in chase.

_It's on now,_ Artemis thought. _You killed my wingman._

Bishop turned sharply again, making for the _Aria_. Artemis stayed with him. For every slight correction, Artemis mirrored it. She followed as he flew straight towards the outstretched starboard launch pod. He weaved his fighter deftly through the massive buttresses attaching the pod to the ship. The CAG followed with a vengeance.

She closed in tightly as the two nimble fighters cleared the aft end of the Battlestar again. Her dradis began rapidly beeping. Target lock immanent.

Bishop could almost sense his Viper being painted by Artemis's dradis. Without any warning, he shoved the controls completely forward, inverting his Viper in a blink. He fired his thrusters , blasting in the opposite direction.

Artemis recognized the split-s, and didn't play into it. She carefully nosed her fighter up before throwing it into a tight arc, keeping her nose high. She stood on her left floor pedal, looking up through her canopy as the aft end of her fighter swung with the turn, bringing her nose around.

Bishop almost swore, watching the CAG swing the reverse Herbst to perfection. Not only was she just plain talented, but she had proven her technical proficiency as well. She still held the firing position.

A thin layer of perspiration formed on Bishop's brow as Artemis continued her blistering pursuit. Bishop mentally scrapped any more textbook moves. He now juked to and fro, not staying in one position for more than perhaps a second, flying with no intentional course.

Artemis almost had to smirk. Bishop was now running with a purpose – not just leading her on. She kept with him, searching for the perfect angle.

Bishop rolled and shot instantly vertical – spiraling tightly upward. Artemis overshot – intentionally. She killed her engines and fired her nose thrusters with her aft – sending her into a nose-over-rear spin. She spun twice – once to locate Bishop, and once more to line up her angle. She laid her throttle down once more after completing her second roll. Bishop was still spiraling away – widening his spin into a flat scissor.

He hadn't intended on Artemis recovering from her overshoot as quickly as she had.

"Gotcha, Bishop," she whispered. Her dradis's rapid beeping became one solid tone as she hard locked onto the commander.

* * *

"_Bingo, Bishop's dead!"_

A wild cheer went up from the collected pilots in the CIC and observation decks. Much of the crew raised their eyebrows, laughing. The commander had just been bested by the CAG. History had been made.

Emory folded his arms, looking out the solar shield, almost smiling. He had thought the era of pilots had gone by the wayside as he and Mason had stepped out of their cockpits years ago in favor of ship command. Until today.

The air wing stormed out of the CIC, already firing verbal replays of the engagement, speaking as though the dogfight had just become an instant classic.

* * *

"_Well done, Captain,"_ Bishop said over the wireless, bringing his Viper parallel with Artemis's.

She looked over at him as he took position flying on her wing. After looking around quickly to confirm the rest of the squadron was well away, she faced him again, smiling warmly.

He smiled in return, pressing a gloved hand against the side of his cockpit. She returned the gesture. It was as close as they could get for the time being.

Something about flying with Artemis made Mason fall for her all over again, right there in his cockpit. He loved how she flew, how her fighter looked, and moreover just the feeling of doing something together that came naturally to the both of them. It was here they were in their element.

"_Ok, Valkyries, let's have Buzz and—what the frak,"_ Artemis's voice said, dropping off in confusion.

* * *

"Dradis contact!" Hopkins called. His face paled, "Sir, it's the _Odyssey_. She's launching Vipers."

Emory scowled, "Action stations. Condition one. Gun crews to decks, launch squadrons eight, five, and three. And for frak's sake, get me Mason."

* * *

Mason shared the same expression of his XO as he saw the _Odyssey_ jump directly in front of the _Aria_.

"_Commander, what's the game plan?"_ Emory's voice said in his ear.

"This is the third time Greene has done this to me. I'm sick of this, Garrett," Mason growled. "We're this close. He won't jump away again."

"_Agreed, sir. Once you get aboard I'll-"_

"I'm staying out, Angel," the commander said, deadpan.

"_You're what?"_

"I'm flying. The ship is yours, commander," Mason said. "You know what she can do just as well as I can. Early engagement will be key. We'll hit them hard and fast."

"_Sir, I can't-"_

"Yes you can. I'll be in contact," Bishop said, breaking the transmission. He glanced over to Artemis, who looked at him with her mouth open.

"_Bishop…you're not serious, are you?"_ she asked over the Viper tac.

He smiled at her, almost sadly, "Yes, I am."

He looked one last time at his ship – seeing the massive batteries stirring from their bedded positions along the hull, and Vipers spewing by the dozens out of the sides. The commander then shifted his attention forward towards the enemy Battlestar, a quiet rage building in him as he flew out in front of his ship and squadrons.

"_Aces 'n Eights, we're with you, commander!"_ Scooter's voice called.

"_Prowlers are a go."_

"_Vigilantes with you, sir, let's frak some shit up!"_

Mason smiled grimly as the squadrons called in. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Vipers – a full on force of sixty fighters – forming a tight formation behind Artemis.

He looked at her again. She looked at him – a strange look on her face. She looked as though she desperately wanted to say something to him, but somehow couldn't.

"_Good hunting, sir,"_ were the words that she formed.

"And to you, Artemis," he replied, quietly. The traditional send off. He knew, though, what she had said to him through it.

"_Commander Mason, my friend. What you are doing is very unwise,"_ Greene's silky voice said over the Colonial Fleet channel.

"I could say the same to you, Commander," he replied. "Recall your Vipers and set condition two. We can talk about this."

"_Don't chide me like I'm some inferior enemy force, Mason. I will destroy your ship, slaughter your people, and continue my assignment as the gods have directed me. You are merely an obstacle."_

"Is that so?" Mason asked. "It seems to me you're the only one who got the message about this judgment day thing you're on. Jacob, know that if you fire upon me, you will be regarded as an enemy of the colonies and treated as such."

"_So be it,"_ replied an irate-sounding Greene. _"There are those who said this day would never come. And what are they to say now?"_

Mason shook his head, looking over once more at Artemis. She rolled her eyes.

"_Kick his ass, Bishop."_

The cocky smirk returned as he slammed his throttle down.


	8. Chapter 8

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

This one took me a little longer than normal, reader, and I apologize for that. Thank you, as always, for sticking with Mason, Artemis, Emory, the _Aria_, and your humble author. However, after finishing this one, all I can say is this:

Hold on tight.

* * *

8.

"Helm, come right ninety degrees, ahead full! Fire control – salvo fire, right on their nose! Cross the T, people! Get me a firing solution for missiles! Get me a wide defensive spread!" Emory barked over the din in the CIC. Various affirmations were called back to him.

The massive ship began a sharp turn to the right. The gun turrets cranked noisily as they turned their frighteningly large fifty inch guns to the port side of the ship. Each gun was loaded mechanically by the crews with shells weighing over three tons each.

Deep booms, each sounding like a resounding strike on an absurdly large bass drum, shook the very frame of the ship as the batteries began their salvos. Emory narrowed his eyes, looking hard at the dradis. The first rounds had been fired. It had begun.

* * *

"Ok, Valkyries and Vigilantes, we're going for the _Odyssey _ - Eights and Prowlers, keep those fighters entertained for a minute. They won't all go for the _Aria_ once they realize what we're doing – remember, take out the _Odyssey_ first – the fighters are a second priority. First the engines, then break her back," Bishop spoke calmly as the shells from the _Aria_ – each almost the size of his Viper – went sizzling past.

The _Aria_'s fighters – each bearing a unique motif of their pilot – split into two flights. The Eighth and Fifth both immediately stopped their forward flights - rolling hard and spreading out. They assumed an intimidating defensive posture in front of the _Aria's_ defensive net – as though they were almost daring a fighter to try to break through.

Meanwhile, Bishop and Artemis led their remaining thirty fighters straight for the _Odyssey_ in tight formation.

"_Here comes their net!"_ Artemis called. Huge, lumbering shells tumbled through space, exploding at just the right range from the _Odyssey_ to prevent the swarming Vipers from _Aria_ from getting a solid lock on the Battlestar. The red-hot shrapnel played hell on the squadrons, causing instant chaos in the formation.

"Easy, easy!" Bishop yelled, pulling hard over the net. "Spread out and look for an opening!"

"_It's in my engines!"_

"_-frak!"_

Mason looked behind him, seeing his fighters beginning to tumble. He also then saw the brilliance of the _Odyssey_'s plan. His guts were instantly laced with ice.

"_Bishop! They're on us!" _Artemis called, confirming what Bishop was seeing. The _Odyssey_'s fighters had waited for the Vipers to get close to the net. The _Odyssey_ had then fired her guns as her fighters turned around – trapping the first flight of Vipers between the two.

"Holy mother of Athena," Bishop breathed.

"_Break out the sides! Move it, people! Get out the sides and re-form!"_ Artemis barked as the dogfight began.

"_They're all over me!"_ came a voice Bishop believed was Corndog's.

"_Just get out of the net!"_

Shrapnel peppered Bishop's viper as he skimmed the _Odyssey_'s net. His attention, however, was focused the other direction towards the incoming fighters. He watched them form into expert flights and open fire.

* * *

"Sir! Solid hits on the bow of the _Odyssey – _she's opened up her defensive net!" Hopkins called.

"At least we got the first punch in," Emory muttered, knowing now that the defensive net was active around the _Odyssey_ – the chances of hitting the ship with solid battery fire or missiles was effectively halved.

"_Incoming!"_

The whole of the _Aria_ shuddered as it received the business end of a couple rounds from the _Odyssey_.

Emory lost his balance temporarily, falling onto the nav table and spilling his coffee everywhere.

"Motherfraker!" he yelled, picking himself up.

Hopkins looked over, and almost laughed at the XO.

"Can I get you more coffee, sir?"

Emory shot a look over to Hopkins, smirking nonetheless.

"No," he said, extracting his can of fermented milled fumella leaves from his pocket, and placing a disturbingly large amount under his lip. "Damage report if you please, Hopkins. Fire control, keep them spitting, fire at will!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Helm, bring us about again and lay me alongside at two clicks!" Emory roared as the lights flickered.

"Two clicks, sir?" asked the young Ensign Carver from the helm. Two kilometers was absurdly close for two capital ships of the line.

"Two clicks," Emory confirmed.

"Aye, sir," Carver replied, silently offering prayers to whoever would listen.

* * *

"_I'm hiiiiit!"_

Mason cringed at the scream over the wireless as he ran for the edge of the net. As he did so, a single forty millimeter round whizzed through the bubble canopy of his Mark VII Viper – close enough that Mason felt the heat from it through his helmet's visor. The round created two holes in the canopy – each the size of his fist.

"_Close one, Bishop!" _Artemis called to him. He glanced to his left, seeing her pull close to his Viper.

"Cosmetic damage only," he smiled to her, trying not to betray the sick feeling he felt in his stomach. Had he been flying only marginally faster, the round would have gone straight through his head.

"_Good,"_ she smiled briefly in return before firing her thrusters, bringing the aft end of her Viper around. She reversed her engines, now flying backwards with speed –her nose faced toward the fray.

"Here we go," she whispered to herself as her dradis locked on an enemy Viper. She launched one of her missiles, watching as it weaved its way through the fight, impacting the fighter with force before exploding.

"_Artemis, splash one!" _she said, her smile heard through the wireless.

Bishop's smirk returned as he finally broke through the trap and swung wide around the fray. Artemis righted herself and took her position close on Bishop's wing again.

"_Aria_, Bishop," Mason spoke on the wireless as he rocketed back towards the chaos.

* * *

"Bishop, _Aria,_ go ahead!" Emory yelled into the heavy, black wireless receiver. Constant booms rattled the ship as the batteries rained punishment in the general direction of the _Odyssey_.

"_Angel – you ok?"_

"I'm fine, sir!" the XO spoke into the phone. "We're getting pounded, but it's manageable."

"_Ok, do you remember back in the Osceollan Nebula with the base star?"_

"Great story, Scott, but now isn't the time," Emory said as another shell impacted the forward nose of the _Aria_ – spewing flames, debris, and the odd crewman into space.

"_I know, shut up and listen. Do you remember what we did to take it down?"_

"Battle-wagoned out a raptor with more missiles than it was supposed to carry, got some pilot crazy enough to fly it, and they punched out just prior to impact. I remember. You did it," Emory said into the wireless, cringing at the thought.

"_We may have to do it again," _Bishop said. _"We'll give this a few more minutes. Keep peppering them, Garrett."_

"Aye, sir," Emory replied.

* * *

Bishop glanced over at Artemis, craning his neck over the shattered bullet hole in his windscreen. She nodded to him, and he nodded in return.

No fewer than six of the _Odyssey_ vipers took up position on their six o'clock – bearing in hard, firing their guns haphazardly in the vain hope they'd score a lucky hit.

In a flash, Bishop and Artemis swung a blinding thatch weave, crisscrossing their flight paths. Artemis looped wide around, while Bishop took a more straightforward course.

Traditionally, all six Vipers would have followed one fighter. However, their numbers gave them the advantage. Two split off, following Artemis, and the remaining four closed in hard on Bishop.

"Four on your six, Bishop!" Artemis called as she jockeyed for a solid angle.

"_I see them, I'm not worried,"_ Bishop replied. _"You'll get them."_

She smiled, hearing the confidence in his voice.

Bishop indeed wasn't concerned about the fighters closing in on him. His eyes were focused forward at the defensive net of the _Odyssey_.

_If their gun crews are anything like mine, they'll need to reload shortly. Maybe their guns are getting hot, too. Someone may have to pause to cool their barrels. Someone…_

The explosions were well timed and disciplined – as would be expected from a Colonial ship of war. But there were exceptions, of course.

_There._

Artemis watched carefully as Bishop weaved a dance back and forth through the fray of fighters, battery shells, and debris. He swung hard to the right, avoiding a large chunk of bulkhead that had been ripped from the _Aria_. Artemis anticipated this. His pursuer did not.

Instantly, Artemis hard-locked on to the leading fighter of the group as he swung to avoid the debris. She pulled the trigger, firing her last missile.

The range was close enough – the missile took only a second to travel to its target – destroying it upon impact.

_You're too close,_ Artemis thought, looking at the Vipers that were trailing the one she had just dispatched. They broke wildly, making themselves easy targets.

She switched to her forty millimeter guns, and unleashed a volley of punishment on the second Viper, ripping holes all along its hull. The pilot, miraculously unharmed, decided to take his chances on the outside of the aircraft as he ejected.

"Splash two!" Artemis called over the wireless, grinning.

"_No way, Artemis!"_ said the familiar voice of Corndog. He spiraled in with speed from someplace above the fray. Artemis watched as he fired a missile, sending it right through the nose of the _third_ viper pursuing Mason.

"Nice, Corndog!" Artemis yelled, adrenaline flowing through her veins like a white-hot light.

"_Can't let you get all the glory today!"_ he said, turning and smiling at her through his cockpit. Which is when a stray missile found its way to his engines.

Artemis paled as she saw Corndog and his Viper explode in a blinding flash.

"Corndog!" she screamed. "Corndog!"

* * *

"Uh oh," Emory said, looking through the solar shield. The _Odyssey_ began to roll and dive in the fight, bringing the ships parallel. Since the times of the old sailing ships – parallel meant one thing.

"Fire control! One salvo and make it count! All hands hang on!" Emory bellowed, grasping the edge of the nav table.

The ship rocked even more noticeably as the collected guns on the port side fired in unison with the rotating turrets. The sight of the _Aria_ unleashing a full broadside was terrifying. As was the sight of the _Odyssey_ doing the same.

The lights on the _Aria_ flickered noticeably as the ship absorbed the wall of firepower dealt out by the _Odyssey_. Alarms wailed and people yelled as they were tossed from their posts.

Emory was thrown to the floor as the ship lurched from underneath him. He rose, brushing himself off.

"Get the frakking lights back on!" he growled. "Mr. Hopkins, damage report!"

"Decks twenty three, eighteen, eleven, and nine venting, sir!" Hopkins reported, his voice raised. "Multiple KIAs reported! Even more wounded!"

"Seal effected compartments," the XO barked. "On deck medical supervisors triage the wounded! Only critical to sick bay at this time! Walking wounded stand their posts!"

"Sir!" Hopkins said, his face pale. "Perhaps you should get your head looked at!"

Emory, who was leering over at fire control, paused a moment. He brushed his hand against his brow, feeling a warm substance running down his face. His hand came away red.

"I'm fine!" he said, spitting a mixture of blood and fumella leaf juice on the deck. "To your post! Keep the guns going, Erik!"

"Aye, sir!"

"O'Reilly!" he then snapped, looking over at the direction of the air boss. He blinked, finding Steele sitting in her place.

"Sir?" warrant officer Steele asked.

"Where in the frak is O'Reilly?" Emory bawled.

"Knocked out cold in sick bay, sir!" Steele said as the _Aria_ shuddered again.

"Whatever! I need a pilot, RFN!"

"Aye, sir, a pilot RFN!"

* * *

Bishop waited patiently for the pause in fire. When it presented itself, he snapped his fighter sharply down, into the thinned flak net surrounding the _Odyssey._

"Oh shit," he breathed. While thinned, the flying metal shrapnel still tore into his viper.

Alarms blared at him. Flak was caught in his right turbofan engine. While not much use in space, the turbofan was now useless for atmospheric flight. He watched, wincing, as more shrapnel tore into the skin of his Viper, causing mostly cosmetic damage.

After an eternity of excruciating punishment, he broke through the defensive net – beholding the _Odyssey_ before him. She was an impressive sight, her guns blazing with hatred toward his ship, engines fired at full sublight.

_Gotta fix that_, Mason thought.

He tore a path through space – making for the glowing engines. He waited patiently until the while stern of the ship was perhaps a kilometer away.

He smiled with malice as he fired both his missiles – each of them streaking towards one of the six massive engines on the _Odyssey_. The frozen vapor trails they left in their wake expanded – freezing in fantastic shapes as they tore their destructive path through the void.

"C'mon," Bishop whispered.

The missiles _slammed_ into the uppermost port engine of the _Odyssey_ – causing an immense fireball to belch into space – fueled mostly by the ignited tyllium.

"Frak yeah!" Bishop yelled, despite himself. It felt extremely gratifying to personally deliver a punch, personally, to the enemy. He rolled away as the engines sputtered, clinging to life.

"_Aria_, Bishop, I just poked his eye, get after him!" the commander called into the wireless.

* * *

"Where's my pilot?" Emory demanded.

"Here, sir," said a voice from the doors of the CIC.

There stood Nike, dressed in her flight suit, one shoulder riding slightly lower than the other.

"You've gotta be frakkin' kidding me," Emory sighed.

"I don't understand, sir," she replied, striding into the shaking CIC.

"I need a pilot, not a bird with a clipped wing!" he growled. "Gods damn it, fire control, get them now before they figure out Bishop nailed one of their engines!"

"Sir, I've been cleared for flight," she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Fine!" he barked. "Give me a frakkin' minute to think about my next move!"

* * *

Bishop was still grinning like a young man when a shell fired from the _Odyssey_ collided hard with his starboard wing.

"Oh frak!" he screamed.

The collision sent him into a dizzying barrel roll, with his velocity carrying him upward again to the defensive net of the _Odyssey_. He fought with his joystick, trying vainly to keep his fighter under control. The shell had destroyed several primary thrusters, making maneuvering in the black of space difficult, to say the least. His Viper spun wildly into the chaos that was the net, with a second round of shrapnel digging into his fighter's skin.

Artemis didn't make it through the defensive net in time, and was forced to watch from the outside as Bishop expertly fired his missiles. She smiled, celebrating the small victory with him as he hit his target.

Her breath left her in the next moment as she watched Bishop's viper receive the business end of the massive ship-to-ship shell. Silence stretched on – even her heart seemingly stopped. Her eyes widened seeing the commander spin wildly out of control.

It took the concussion of a flak shell exploding near her craft to jolt her back to the present. Her viper bucked hard underneath her – much like a horse would.

"_Krypter, Krypter, Krypter! _Aria, _Artemis, Bishop just took a shell to the wing! Get me a frakking SAR Raptor!"_ she screamed shrilly into the wireless.

* * *

"Oh gods," Emory's face paled, as did several others around the CIC.

Hopkins snatched up the wireless in a flash.

"SAR Raptor away, RFN!" he yelled into the black handset. "I know there's a frakking war going on out there! Get out there and get the commander!"

* * *

Bishop gritted his teeth as his viper spun away from the fray.

_Thrusters not responding, no control._

He shut down his engines, stopping any forward progress. He then attempted to fire them again, hoping that firing them in one burst would at least point him in one direction.

His dradis sputtered and failed, as did his engines.

_Frak._

With no other options available, he grasped the ejection seat handle and yanked it forcefully. What was left of his viper's canopy exploded off the rails. Half of a heartbeat later, he was launched out of his Viper into space.

"_Aria_, this is Bishop," he called, hoping to the gods that his wireless was working. "My bird is bent, I've ejected. I'm ok, come get me."

* * *

Emory sighed in relief hearing his friend's voice on the wireless.

"Bishop, _Aria_, we copy, we're coming to get you, Scott," the XO said in reply. "Hang in there."

"Aria_, Bishop, good copy, I'm ok for now."  
_

* * *

Artemis blinked back the moisture that had formed in her eyes upon hearing Mason's voice. Her eyes quickly scanned the battle, finding Bishop's discarded viper. She then focused in on a small bluish-white speck of light floating a distance away from it.

Without thinking, she nosed her viper in that direction, slamming the throttle forward. Her heart instantly lightened, seeing the form of Mason move about as he floated through space. In yet another swing of emotion, her eyes narrowed instantly in on a flight of vipers from the _Odyssey_ who had spotted the same thing.

"Not today," she whispered, a boiling rage flowing through her veins. "Not him. Not today."

She arrived at Mason first. She looked at him through her canopy. Recognizing her, Mason smiled and casually waved, as if this thing happened on a daily basis. She nodded in return, rolling hard about. Mason now floated free behind her engines, perhaps a quarter of a kilometer or less. She positioned herself like an angry bear standing over her cubs, although her disposition suggested something far more frightening.

"Come get him, you sons of bitches," she snarled to herself, watching the _Odyssey_'s vipers close in.

* * *

"Helm!" Emory roared, his face alight with a new idea. "Fire thrusters - I want us to start rolling!"

"Aye, sir!" Carver replied. "Rolling the ship!"

"Fire control!" the XO said next. "Salvo fire for all batteries! Starboard fires as she bears, port likewise! Top and keel batteries fire at will!"

"Aye, sir!" Hopkins replied with a slightly confused look.

The _Aria_'s thrusters fired, sending the wounded ship into a tight roll. As the starboard side of the ship came up to bear on the _Odyssey_, they fired in unison, with the top and bottom guns firing away as they saw fit. As the hulking ship rolled again, the port batteries lined their sights on the starboard side of the _Odyssey_, dolling out a fresh broadside.

* * *

Floating through the battle, and feeling quite helpless, Mason saw the _Aria_ now firing almost a constant stream of shells to the _Odyssey_.

"Gods above, Garrett, you're a genius," he whispered.

* * *

Artemis took one last glance behind her at Bishop before again laying her throttle down. An intense focus took hold of her mind as she sized up the five fighters before her. They went for the classic thatch weave, with three taking one direction, two on the other. One fighter lagged behind in the maneuver.

_Last time you'll do that,_ Artemis thought, squeezing the trigger. She fired a short burst, but it was more than enough. A single bullet pierced the pilot's cockpit directly from above – instantly filling the canopy with a nauseating splatter of red. She took no satisfaction in the kill – her fury still burning deep within her as she gave chase to the two remaining vipers closing in on Mason.

* * *

"Starboard flight pod on the _Odyssey_ is history, sir!"

Emory grimly smiled, watching through the solar screen as the flight pod detached from the _Odyssey_ under the hail of gunfire.

"_Radiological alarm!_" Hopkins sang. "She's opened her launch doors, sir!"

Emory had been waiting for this, as they had used nuclear weapons against the _Aria_ previously. It honestly surprised him they hadn't played this particular card sooner.

"Ok," the XO sighed. "Helm, bring us in closer. Put me alongside her at one klick."

Carver raised an eyebrow before replying, "Aye, sir."

Emory felt the eyes of the CIC on him, and the palpable terror of being that close to the enemy Battlestar.

"Listen," he said, perhaps a little sharply. "We'll stand a hell of a lot better chance at that range. She won't fire her nukes that close – it would kill them and us at the same time. We've got the advantage now, even though we're hurt, too. If we stay out there, she'll nuke us."

"Sir," Hopkins asked. "I really hate to be the one to say this, but have you given consideration to using our nuclear weapons?"

Emory paused, "Yes. But like it or not, that is still a Colonial ship out there. I won't do it unless there are no other options. I don't know what Greene's major malfunction is, but there still may be loyal people aboard that ship, and I won't blow it out of the sky simply because I can."

Hopkins nodded.

"And besides, we fire nukes, they fire nukes, and then everyone's just dead," Emory continued, his face darkened not only from the blood on it, but from rarely shown emotion. The Battlestar hummed underneath them as the _Aria_ tracked towards the _Odyssey_. The exchange of battery fire – if not furious before, rose to a frantic level.

Emory's shoulders tensed as he felt the _Aria_ absorbing blow after blow underneath him. He glanced at the damage control screen, seeing more and more decks lighting up in red.

_Hold on, _Aria. _Bishop is coming home soon, he'll fix this.  
_

* * *

Bishop had since loosed himself from the ejection seat – allowing him to float freely, albeit the massive, boxy oxygen supply on his back. He glanced down at the watch-like meter on his wrist. It confirmed that he still had forty six hours of oxygen.

_Not a problem_.

Mason's eye caught the bird-like shape of a raptor tearing through the fray – the craft looked like it had a purpose.

"_Bishop, Bishop this is Raptor Three-Seven, it's Raven and Nike, sir, are you ok?"_

Bishop had to smile. His people were coming to get him.

"Raven, Bishop, good to see you, standby for strobe flash," Bishop said into the comm.

"_Roger, sir, standing by."_

Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out a right-angled flashlight with a blue lens. He pointed the flashlight directly at Raven's raptor and flipped the light on.

"_Bishop, Raven, I have you – stay put, sir, we're coming."_

"Not like I have much of a choice," cracked Bishop.

* * *

Artemis saw the frantic flash of Bishop's mayday strobe. She then spied Raven's raptor hauling ass towards it. Unfortunately, so did everyone else.

Two of the remaining Vipers wheeled around, homing in on Bishop's tiny form. The CAG immediately gave chase.

* * *

Raven expertly pulled the raptor alongside Mason. The side hatch popped open – revealing a smiling Nike.

"Good to see you sir!" she said, her voice amplified over the wireless.

"You too, give me a hand," Bishop replied.

Nike grabbed a mooring cable gun – a glorified version of a spear gun, used to tow raptors into tight spaces when thrusters were too strong for maneuvering. She purposefully aimed slightly over the floating commander – and fired.

Bishop saw the tow cable spew out of Nike's gun, and the hook a second later. He allowed the hook to travel well past him before grabbing the line.

"Great shot, Nike," he said, tying a very quick figure of eight knot into the rope, and hooking himself to it.

* * *

Artemis ground her teeth hard as she tried angling herself up for a clean shot at the enemy fighters speeding towards Raven's raptor. She held her fire in check – knowing if she overshot, she may hit the Raptor – or worse, Bishop.

The vipers flew tight – juking every so often in a guns defense – making a shot with her guns almost impossible. She was out of missiles, and needed the gun shot.

"Frakking come on," she growled, her eyes shifting from the vipers ahead of her to Bishop, and then back.

* * *

"Nike, I'm hooked, reel me in!" Bishop called.

"Aye, sir!" she replied. She replaced the gun in the reeling mechanism and slammed her hand down on the "retrieve" button.

Bishop felt the harness he wore yank against his body as the reel engaged. He sped towards the open door of the Raptor. Nike stood on the raptor's wing, her hand outstretched.

"Fifty meters!" Raven called from the cockpit, eyeballing the distance.

Artemis fired a short bust at the leftmost viper, grazing the tail fin and topmost engine. The Viper lurched before spinning away from the pursuit. She let it go – her focus only on getting Bishop inside Raven's raptor.

At the same moment, the rightmost Viper fired a sinister burst towards the floating commander.

Bullets rang of the wing of the raptor – inches from Nike's boot. She jumped backwards into the cabin of the raptor.

"Gods damn it!" she screeched. The raptor lurched to the right.

One such white-hot forty millimeter bullet found the top of Mason's left thigh. He roared in pain as the bullet grazed the top of his quadriceps – leaving a perfect U-shape indentation. Instantly, his pressurized flight suit began venting to space.

And, in cruel irony, a lucky round found the towing line attaching Mason to the raptor – and snapped it.

"Oh frak," Raven breathed.

* * *

Artemis lost all conscious thought as she saw the top of Mason's leg erupt in a shower of red. In one fluid motion, she brought herself alongside the enemy viper, placed the tip of her left wing under the right of the other pilot's, and yanked her stick vehemently to the right. The enemy pilot simply looked on with an astonished face as his viper was rolled forcefully to the left. The move sheared off the missile rail on Artemis's left wing – however she had stopped caring ages ago. She righted herself, stomping on the left pedal, bringing her nose to face the left.

The forward momentum of the two Vipers kept them going in the direction of Raven's raptor – however the forced roll between the two of them allowed them to split the difference – the enemy fighter spiraling madly to the left side of the raptor – and Artemis, speeding _laterally_ by the Viper, her nose pointed momentarily directly into the open door of the rescue craft.

* * *

Mason shook his head, almost blinded by the pain. His training, deep set in his mind, took over. He forced his hands over the gaping hole in his pressure suit, ignoring the pain of his freezing cold gloved hands pressing against the carved hole in his flesh. He looked upwards, momentarily forgetting about his predicament as he saw Artemis manhandle the viper that had shot him. He saw her speed laterally past him – in between Raven's raptor and his body. He shielded his eyes against the bluish white flare of her engines as they passed literally meters from him. When he looked again, he discovered his forward momentum was still carrying him towards the raptor.

"Nike!" he said in between hyperventilated breaths. "I'm still coming in hot! Get ready to catch me!"

Nike looked up, and indeed saw Mason still speeding towards the Viper.

"Raven! Do you have him?" she yelled up front.

"Yeah!" he called back, his eyes focused out of the side window. He fired his thrusters slightly, eyeballing the line on which Mason was travelling, lining up his open door with him.

* * *

Artemis waited patiently for the spinning enemy viper to clear the nose of Raven's raptor. When it did, she was waiting. She purposefully squeezed the trigger in a long, devastating burst of fire. Her bullets raked along the side, bottom, top, whichever side happened to present itself to her guns. The pilot convulsed madly as bullets shredded his cockpit canopy and sides. The shredded viper floated away, breaking apart slowly – pieces floating like confetti around it.

"_Holy son of Apollo, Artemis, I think you got him,"_ Raven's voice crackled over the wireless.

"Is the commander aboard?" she asked, coldly.

"_Standby, ma'am, we're getting him."  
_

* * *

Bishop had no means of slowing down. He flew into the open door of the raptor like a pyramid ball being thrown into the basket with force. Nike attempted to catch him, however only succeeded in partially cushioning the commander from running into the opposite wall of the Viper. They both landed with a sickening crunch on the instrument panel on the wall.

"Raven, he's aboard! Get us out of here!" she screamed.

"On our way!" he replied, closing the door and horsing the raptor around in the direction of the _Aria._

Mason was slightly delirious as the artificial gravity kicked in on the raptor – sucking him to the floor. His oxygen read empty.

"Pressurize the cabin, Raven!" Nike called as she grabbed the trauma kit.

"On it!" Raven said, flipping a lever. Nike heard the hiss of the cabin pressurizing, and removed her helmet. Mason slowly did the same, with her assistance.

She looked at the wound on his leg, paling slightly. Mason, re-invigorated by the oxygen, smiled slightly, "Just a scratch, Nike, help me out here."

Nike snapped back into her training mode, ripping open a bag of quick-clot and dumping it on the leaking wound. Mason growled as the chemicals combined with the moisture of his blood – cauterizing the wound, painfully.

"I think it missed the artery," Nike said, looking at the commander.

"I'm sure it did," he said through gritted teeth. He lifted his leg up slightly, allowing Nike to wrap his thigh in a mound of pressure dressing and bandages. "Otherwise I'd be dead by now."

* * *

"_Artemis, Raven, he's aboard."_

"Good copy, Raven, punch it back to the _Aria_, I'll take your lead," Artemis replied, wheeling her bird around towards the Battlestar.

"_Ma'am, I appreciate it, but –"_

"Shut up, Raven," she said, calmly.

"_Yes ma'am, on your lead."  
_

* * *

Raven fell in close behind Artemis's viper, following her speeding course toward the _Aria_.

Nike finished wrapping the commander's thigh in bandages. Mason grabbed a splinting stick from the trauma kit and slid it in between the bandages and the back of his thigh. He twisted the stick around, tightening the bandage. Nike then took a roll of industrial tape and secured the tightened stick in place. Mason rotated his foot, nodding. He still had movement. He would still be able to fly.

"That'll do for now, sir," Nike nodded. "We'll get you to sick bay and-"

"We're not going to sick bay," Mason said, matter-of-factly.

"Sir, I insist that-"

"Nike, listen," he said, dropping the formality. "I have an assignment for you, and it's not going to be easy. But it's how we're going to win the day."

* * *

"Broken? What the frak do you mean?" Emory almost snarled at Hopkins.

"Port battery seven and two, sir, the barrels are too warm," Hopkins replied, looking exhausted and disheveled, his face stained with soot.

"Do whatever you need to do to get them cooled down, captain. If we're having these problems, then they are, too," Emory muttered.

"Aye, sir," Hopkins replied as the _Aria_ lurched again as she absorbed another peppering of fire.

"Sir, we're staying with them, but we're taking a pounding. Chief Rummel is on the phone, he's saying the frame can't take much more," Steele called from air traffic, holding two phones in his hands.

Emory's face darkened. He closed his eyes momentarily, thinking.

"What would Mason do?" he whispered to himself.

"Helm, bring us about and pull us away from the _Odyssey_ at an angle – ahead full, give it everything you've got. Mr. Steele, clear the pattern and recall the vipers. Fire control, concentrate all fire aft of the ship," boomed a deep, baritone voice.

Emory looked up, feeling a sense of relief wash over him, just as if he were to have stepped into a warm shower.

Commander Scott Mason, still dressed in his flight suit, strode (or limped, rather) into CIC. Simply the presence of the commanding officer was enough to bring relief to the embattled crew.

"Scott," Emory sighed. "Thank the gods."

"You've been brilliant, Garrett," Mason said, hugging the XO warmly. "But now it's time to finish this."

"Yes, sir, it is," the XO said. "I am relieved."

"I relieve you, sir," Mason said, limping up to the nav table. "Steele, let's round up some raptors."

"Aye, sir," Steele called.

"Garrett, I need your expertise for this," Mason said in a low voice.

* * *

"Ok, boys and girls, full recall, let's get home – show some hustle!" Artemis barked over the wireless. Various acknowledgements were made – far fewer than she had hoped. Looking over the space of battle, she saw perhaps twenty or thirty vipers with custom paint snap quickly to their six o'clock and fire their engines.

_Over half. Gods have mercy._

A scattering of vipers from the _Odyssey_ gave chase, the rest, being in varying states of disrepair, chose to turn back to their Battlestar.

Artemis looped around wide, heading to the back of the formation, firing intermittently at the _Odyssey_ vipers – not really shooting to kill, but to discourage their pursuit.

She shifted her attention sideways, seeing the first of her air wing beginning their landings in the launch pods. Strangely, though, she saw both squadrons of Raptors boiling out of the front of the very same launch pods.

A harsh buzzing alarm on her dradis filled the cockpit.

_Radiological._

"_Artemis, _Aria_ actual, you still up and flying?"_ came the voice of Mason over the wireless.

"Actual, Artemis, that's affirm, sir," she replied, failing to suppress a smile at the sound of his voice.

"_Ok. They're going to fire a nuke, and I need you to take care of it before it takes care of us."_

"Understood, sir," she replied, spinning her viper slowly towards the _Odyssey_. She brought herself to a stall – floating in space, waiting.

* * *

Mason stood at the nav table, his eyes glued to the dradis. He watched the two squadrons of raptors as they looped wide, peeling away from the _Aria_ and turning aft. And the lone blip of Artemis, standing watch on the _Aria_'s stern.

"Missile away," Hopkins said, quietly. "One minute to impact."

Mason nodded slowly.

"Aria, _Angel_, _task force is on station, we'll begin in thirty seconds,"_ came the voice of Emory over the wireless.

"Angel, _Aria_ actual, I copy. Good luck, Garrett," Mason replied.

"_And to you, sir."  
_

* * *

Artemis's eyes had never failed her. Their deep green irises – the color of a brilliantly lit pine in full foliage in the wilderness of Caprica – surrounded hyper-sensitive pupils that saw the warhead the instant it left the launch tube on the _Odyssey_. She pursed her lips, watching the missile as it took flight and selected its course.

She knew the missile was faster than any fighter in the fleet at full throttle. She would have one chance to intercept it.

Artemis started forward towards the missile, watching the distance between close with blinding speed.

* * *

"Sir," Hopkins asked, quietly. "What happened in the Osceollan Nebula?"

"Emory and I flew a raptor loaded with three nukes on a collision course with a Cylon basestar. We both punched out of it, danger close, as the Raptor flew into the side of it. Another raptor came and fast-lined us away from it as we detonated," Mason replied, watching the dradis intently. "It completely destroyed the basestar and all her squadrons."

"Why didn't I read about that one at the war college?" Hopkins asked.

"Because it didn't officially happen. We defied retreat orders given by Fleet Admiral Schaeffer, and did it anyway," Mason turned to him, smiling slightly. "In exchange for keeping quiet about it, we were both awarded the Order of Kobul, classified, of course, and told to get the frak out of the admiral's sight."

Hopkins's face broke into a smile.

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Garrett "Angel" Emory glanced over at Lieutenant Naomi "Nike" Emerson. They flew in the middle of the pack of raptors – no less than forty craft, flying in a straight line towards the _Odyssey_.

He then glanced into the back of the raptor – seeing a load of no less than three nuclear warheads – surrounded by at least one metric ton of G4 high explosive – all wired to a detonator. The whole package ran floor to ceiling.

"Let's hope we don't take a stray bullet," Nike cracked.

"Indeed," Angel agreed.

* * *

Artemis began a wide loop, allowing room to lead. The mathematics were staggering. She was charged with blowing up a single missile travelling faster than her, all while maintaining an intercept course, within the span of a minute.

_Give me something hard next time_.

But it wasn't the mathematics. It was something not found in textbooks, nor taught in lecture. It was instinct – feeling – that guided her. To fail meant to lose the_ Aria_, her crew, and Mason. It didn't factor into Artemis's equation. The mathematics be damned.

She slid smoothly in line behind the missile. Her ammunition read low. She would have one burst before empty.

Artemis took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her heads up display showed the missile directly in front of her – burning a path for the battered _Aria_.

She adjusted her flight path slightly, giving respect to the curving missile's path. Her nose now lead the curving path. It would take a few seconds for her rounds to reach the target.

She blinked once, squeezing the trigger.

Her guns spewed their rounds until clicking empty.

One round found its mark – it was all she needed.

Rather than exploding, the missile simply died right there – anticlimactically. Artemis knew that the missile must be detonated – it wasn't the impact that triggered it.

* * *

"Aria _actual_, _Artemis, missile is history."_

There was a collected sigh of relief in the CIC. They would live – at least for a few more minutes.

"Actual copies, Artemis, well done," Mason replied. He broke his gaze from the dradis, his eyes burning holes in the nav table. "It's all up to Angel now."

* * *

"Ok, let's do this," Angel said, pushing the dual throttles forward on the raptor. The rest of the flight followed suit, with eighty engines flaring to life.

"Here comes the net," Nike said. The defensive guns on the _Odyssey_ flared back to life, sending exploding balls of hatred in the direction of the collected raptors.

"Push through, guys, push through!" Angel called over the wireless, his accent crisp as adrenaline flooded his veins. "Courage now!"

Flak peppered the outside of the Raptor as they pushed through the net. While slower, the raptors were tougher than the thin-skinned Vipers. The net proved less of a challenge.

Angel's raptor bucked violently through the net before breaking through.

"I'm through, Bishop!" he called over the wireless. He grinned as he punched the raptor in a hard course for the middle of the hulking Battlestar.

The short-range anti-aircraft guns began firing. Bullets whizzed past the raptors that had made it through the net.

"Steady," Angel called. "Steady now."

He eyed the dradis – the distance closing fast.

His breathing and pulse quickened. His face, however, was placid.

As was Nike's when a bullet hit their windscreen square – punching through the young pilot's chest in an explosion of blood.

"Oh frak!" Angel screamed - his eyes wide with horror.

The fire instantly intensified – focused solely on his raptor. Bullets riddled the craft – punching holes almost in every imaginable surface.

"Frak!" he yelled as debris littered the cabin. "They've detected the nukes! They know I'm coming!"

* * *

Mason's face paled, his mouth opened in horror.

"_Flight control not responding! I – augh!"_

The commander picked up the wireless, "Garrett!"

"_Scott, I'm hit. It's bad,"_ Angel's voice was surprisingly calm.

Mason's face was stone – frozen in shock.

"_Scott, I won't be able to punch out."_

"Yes you can, we'll come get you. Helm! Full about, ahead full! Frakking do it now!"

"_No, Scott. No. You know the stakes."_

"I'm coming to get you, Angel."

"_Scott, tell Nina…I love her very much."_

Mason closed his eyes, leaning on the nav table, his voice thickening, "You know I will."

"_It's been the highest honor of my life, sir."_

"No, Angel. It's been mine. Thank the gods there are men like you."

The silence lasted perhaps a second.

"_Hey, Scott. Remember that one time out by the Scorpion Ship Yards?"_

Mason smiled sadly, blinking moisture from his eyes, "Yeah. That was pretty frakked up, huh?"

"_Yeah…it sure was. A hell of a ride, Scott. Don't worry. I'll see you soon."  
_

* * *

The light came first, a blinding, white light. Brighter than anyone who was watching had ever seen before. And then the concussion, a blast that expanded with furious speed outward from the center of the _Odyssey_.

Artemis shielded her eyes with her hands. Her Viper was tossed carelessly away from the fray, as were the remaining raptors surrounding space around the _Odyssey_.

* * *

Mason stood rooted to the spot as the concussion pushed his Battlestar away from the epicenter of the explosion. The electromagnetic pulse instantly turned the dradis readouts to static, and the lights flickered off.

He remained standing, his head bowed and eyes closed, still in his flight suit, with red beginning to seep through the bandage on his leg. The ship faded around him, replaced by deafening silence.

* * *

"Decks reporting in now – auxiliary power coming online," someone was saying.

"Pressure loss reported in multiple decks –"

"Fire reported on deck—"

"-damage control parties to-"

The buzz of the CIC slowly returned as the emergency lighting kicked on.

"Sir?" Hopkins whispered to him. "Commander?"

Mason opened his eyes. He seemed now, a man apart from reality. A hollow body.

"Commander, are you alright?" Hopkins asked.

"Recall our birds. Initiate damage control protocols," he said, very quietly. "Mr. Steele, confirm target was destroyed."

"Dradis reads negative for the time being, sir," Steele reported. "Most birds are checking in, some are still scattered."

"Is Artemis out there?" he asked, his voice scratchy.

"She is, sir."

"Put me through, Forte."

Forte nodded to him.

"Artemis, _Aria_ actual."

"_Bishop…I…" _came Artemis's voice, thick with emotion.

"I know, Cassie," he said into the phone, using her given name for the first time, his voice heavy with defeat. "Just come home."

"_I will."  
_

* * *

Mason limped through the darkened corridors of the _Aria_. The air was hazed over occasionally with smoke – lights hung from their fixtures, swinging to and fro. He looked at the faces of the crew he passed. They nodded to him, and he nodded in return – knowing the pain in their faces. While preliminary reports were still flowing in, the number of crew killed was at least over six hundred.

He was rerouted several times due to decks that had been sealed off due to pressure loss or damage. Finally, he arrived on the flight deck.

It was a scene of chaos as broken vipers and raptors littered the deck. Many of the crew walked around in a state of shock – some bloodied or burned or both.

"Sir," said the gravelly voice of Rummel from behind him.

"Chief," Mason nodded, turning.

"Looks like something took a bite outta you," the Chief grumbled, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Are your people ok?" the commander sighed.

"We took some losses, but we're managing, sir," Rummel replied.

Mason nodded, grasping the Chief's hand, "Carry on, Chief. You and your people were excellent today."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, looking at the younger man's face. The commander looked as if he had aged five years since the morning.

Mason continued down the deck, limping slowly along. His mind was blank – no thought came or went, even though he studied the scene and people around him.

He caught sight of Artemis's viper, and walked slowly towards it. It was banged up – scorch marks pockmarked the hull, the left wing was scratched to hell, and the occasional bullet hole marred the surface.

He craned his neck to look up into the cockpit. Empty. He walked slowly around the bird, his brow furrowed.

He found Artemis sitting on her starboard wing, staring intently at the deck. Her helmet was cast aside carelessly. Several strands of hair had escaped her ponytail – they hung around her face like heavy curtains.

Mason limped slowly up to her. She looked up at him, not saying a word.

He looked absorbedly into her eyes, at a loss for words.

She stood, slowly, stepping into his embrace.

He buried his head between her shoulder and her neck, and for the first time in years, Commander Scott Mason cried.


	9. Chapter 9

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

Please accept my feeble apologies, reader, for the delay in following up the _Aria_'s battle for survival. To be honest with you, one of my jobs is as a firefighter - and being that I live in the western part of the US, it's been just a little busy around here. Although I'm busy trying to keep up with all of the wildfires, my mind has been with Mason and the crew - trying to formulate where they go next, and how to provide you, dear reader, with a reason to return here. It's been difficult, trying to follow up such an exhausting battle. But, as promised, their ride isn't done yet. Perhaps now we'll find out a little more as to why the _Aria_ found herself in such a tight jam anyway...thank you, as always, for coming along for the ride and sticking with the _Aria_.

9.

His cabin could almost be the anti-thesis of the commander's. The walls were a dark shade of red, the carpet beige. His desk was made of a lightly colored wood - sturdy and heavy in construction. Assorted documents littered the desk, among various paperweights and other mementos.

His walls, like Mason's, were covered in pictures of smiling younger men in flight suits, Vipers, and other pictures. A large picture, displayed with prominence, was placed in the center of the collage. It contained two figures - the first of a beaming, beautiful woman with flowing auburn hair, clothed in an immaculate white dress. The other figure, dressed in Colonial Fleet dress grays, was Lieutenant Commander Emory.

Mason remembered the day as he stared at the photo. A stunning Caprian spring day, the trees shedding blossoms by the thousands, the air fragrant. The temperature was perfect. Mason remembered standing behind Emory as he held the hands of this beautiful woman, saying the familiar words. He remembered unsheathing his sword, issuing crisp orders to the honor guard, and turning his blade to the wind as a grinning Emory and his new bride, Nina, strode underneath the arch.

He continued staring at the picture, motionless. The thought crossed his mind that she probably was still unaware of the fate of her husband. She probably thought that he was still out looking around for the lost Battlestar - unaware that the _Odyssey_ had been taken, and destroyed. Unaware that several hundred of his fellow crewmen had suffered the same fate as him. Looking forward still to her husband's safe return.

He walked over to Emory's bar, his mind blank. He poured a frighteningly large amount of some smoky-smelling amber liquid into a glass. Mason slowly walked back over to Emory's desk, and sank into the XO's leather chair. He took a long pull of the alcohol, feeling the foul burn in his mouth, and then the warm sensation that crept down his throat, coming to rest in his stomach.

Setting the glass down, he opened the pull out drawer of the desk. From it, he pulled a thick, leather bound volume. On the front cover, embossed in rich gold, was the _Aria_'s crest. Directly underneath, "Executive Officer's Log" was spelled in a commanding font. Mason guided the silk ribbon bookmark to the edge and opened the volume, the smell of parchment greeting him.

Emory's penmanship was achingly familiar to his eyes. He took another large gulp before reading the last entry.

_"Engaged Battlestar _Odyssey_ at 1430 CMT. Cmmdr Mason opted to stay out as fighter pilot in support. Unsure if Colon. Regs. allow for this. Have been placed in commd. of _Aria_ - am intimidated by thought. _Odyssey_ proving to be formidable opponent - unsure if _Aria_ will win the day. Mason has backup plan. Am confident if all else fails, _Aria_ will neutralize threat to colonies. Crew understands assignment. GME."_

Mason stared at the initials ending the log. Of course Emory was right. There were no regulations detailing what he could and couldn't do. However, his place during the fight was rightfully on the _Aria_. Not jocking a Viper.

_I'm sorry I put that on you, Garrett. That burden was not yours to bear. I'm sorry. I frakked up. Please, please forgive me._

Mason's eyes stung with tears again. He chastised himself for being selfish. For doing what he wanted to, as opposed to fufilling his duties aboard ship. Perhaps if he had been aboard, things would be different. Maybe, perhaps, he would not have had to send Emory at all.

He closed the log book slowly, the parchment closing on itself solidly. He sat for several minutes in the silence, staring at the mess of papers on Emory's desk. Mason almost expected Emory to walk back through his door - asking what the frak he was doing sitting at his desk, drinking his expensive booze.

Mason looked up slowly as a dark form entered the room. He stared at the figure of Artemis as she stepped into the dim light cast across the room from Emory's window.

She returned Mason's gaze, taking in the sight of him as he sat at Emory's desk. He was still dressed in his flight suit, the top unzipped and bunched around his hips. The bandages that had been applied hours before by the now-dead Nike were beginning to soak through to the surface in a dark shade of crimson. He looked most unlike the commander that everyone knew. He looked a man defeated. A man who had nothing left to lose.

She strode over to the side of Emory's desk and sat down on the edge, next to Mason's arm. He continued to stare down at the desk, his face blank.

She gently took the glass from his hand, and took a long pull of the drink herself. Her face was placid as she did so.

"We're pulling up to Scorpion. We'll be docking in twenty minutes," she said, almost whispering.

Mason blinked once, acknowledging her.

"You're not going to be able to do this to yourself, you know," she said after a moment's more silence.

"What would you have me do?" he replied, his voice burning.

"Return as a hero coming home," she said, taking his hand. "That's what you are."

"The frak I am," he said, his voice like a rumbling bass drum. "A quarter of my crew is dead. Garrett's dead. Nike is dead. Corndog is dead. They're _dead_, Cassie. I am not a hero. I am death to my men and women."

She grasped his hand in both of hers, looking towards the floor, "Yes, they're dead. But three-quarters of your crew is still alive. They sacrificed themselves to save us. We would have done the same for them. It's just how the cards were dealt."

"Is that the only consolation I can offer to their wives? Their husbands? Their sons? A card game?" he said, squeezing her hands tightly. "The cost is too high. It's too much. Too much."

"I know," Artemis said, her eyes stinging. "But that's what we do. You know that. We serve at the pleasure of the Colonies, and we are charged to protect them."

Mason sighed, and drained the rest of the alcohol in one gulp, "The Cylon War wasn't even this bad. I can't do this much longer. I always thought we'd all made it. That the death and heartache we saw then would never happen again. That we had given all we could."

Artemis stroked the side of his face gently, "It sounds like you want to quit, Bishop."

"Today I do," he replied. "I don't want to do this anymore."

She looked at him, sadly, turning his face to hers, "You wouldn't be the same person, Scott."

"I wouldn't?" he asked, his dark eyebrows raised slightly.

"No," she said, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. "Someone told me once that this service is who you are. To quit would change you. And then you wouldn't be the Bishop that everyone knows. Not the one I know."

Mason looked away from her for a moment, "still doesn't make this shit any easier."

* * *

"Scott, my gods," Nelson rushed to him as the heavy docking doors on the _Aria_ swung open. A variable army of medical staff, repair crews, and still others wanting to have a look at the ship crowded behind the Admiral.

"Sir," Mason pressed his left hand down on his cane, drawing himself up to his full height and saluting. Nelson hastily returned it before rushing closer to him still and embracing him.

"Commander, we're getting you to medical at once," Nelson turned, pressing his arm in the small of Mason's back, urging him forward.

"No, sir, not before my critical people are offloaded," Mason's hand gripped the Admiral's forearm like a vice.

Nelson looked briefly affronted as the rush of personnel streamed past them, "And what are you to do, then?"

"Stay aboard the _Aria_," Mason replied. "Where I will oversee repairs, and then be treated by medical when the time comes."

The Admiral looked at him sadly. He knew there would be no discussion about this.

"Whatever you need, Scott, let me know," he whispered.

"Yes, sir. You'll have the full report within the hour," Mason nodded before slowly turning. Nelson looked on silently as Mason limped back into the wounded _Aria_.

* * *

As the day wore on, most of the crew retreated to the shipyards and their more comfortable accommodations for much needed rest. The corridors of the _Aria_ echoed with silence, punctuated by the occasional sounds of repairs, or the odd page for personnel.

Mason strode slowly down the empty flight deck. He had forgone the cane after a quick trip to the shipyard's sick bay. The doctor - some guy named Cottle - had told him he had simply had to tough this one out at let the thing heal naturally. He dressed the wound nicely and tossed Mason a bottle of painkillers before pointing him out the door with a lit cigarette.

The commander had waited until he was out of sight of the doctor before tossing the pills in a nearby scuttle bin. He had decided to simply walk through the pain - however long it would take him to do so.

Which brought him to the cavernous flight deck. The large space appeared even larger with the absence of the normal compliment running about. And, admittedly, a large amount of Vipers missing.

The air smelled of burned tylium fuel and smoke as Mason ventured further down the deck - back into the reserve Viper storage. His heart was heavy as he noticed the empty bays once containing extra birds. However, one shape caught his eye. A Viper rested in the corner, covered in a heavy canvas storage tarp. He walked slowly to the corner, puffs of dust emanating from his footfalls.

He raised an eyebrow, curious as he recognized the shape of a Mark VII Viper under the tarp. Mason grasped the tarp and pulled hard, the cover sliding off the fighter noiselessly.

His breath caught in his chest as he beheld the fighter craft before him. It looked factory-new, its paint shining, even in the dim light. The canopy was polished so the ten centimeter thick glass looked invisible. The most striking feature, however, was the custom paint - trademark of the _Aria_'s vipers.

White feathered wings sprouted from the sides of the Viper - so intricately detailed that they looked soft to the touch. The feathers covered the entire side of the Viper - shaped in the almost glorious form of outstretched wings. Mason's eyes widened in wonder as they raked every inch of the craft. _Aria_ was spelled with bold lettering on the side of the turbofan engine, which was out of character. Normally pilots opted to have the Battlestar's name emblazoned on the tail fin of their fighters, as was the normal markings on Colonial fighters. But not this pilot.

Mason's eyebrows raised in sadness as he read the stenciled name below the cockpit:

Lt. Cmmdr. Garrett Emory  
"Angel"

"Garrett," he whispered, stepping up to the fighter and touching the name with his hand. He looked around quickly, spying the gear lockers along the wall. Dust fell slowly as he opened door after door - finally finding Emory's flight gear. Being of almost identical height and weight, the flight suit fit him nicely. And while he didn't necessarily know what it was he was intending to do - he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to be off the ship, and flying.

He gritted his teeth as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit - his leg burning in protest. He braced his hands on each rail of the cockpit glass and lowered himself into the seat. His hands lightly touched the controls around him - all of them seemingly brand new, as if frozen in time.

Mason disregarded the normal start-up checks, choosing instead to fire the engines directly. He then remotely accessed the _Aria_'s computer through the dradis installed in the Viper. He isolated the flight deck, and the gravity controls. He slowly lowered the intensity of the gravity on the deck, and fired the maneuvering thrusters.

The viper lifted from the deck, and slowly floated back down. Mason's eyebrows furrowed slightly. Launching a Viper without the aid of the launch tubes was cumbersome at best. He fired the thrusters again, and simultaneously pushed the throttled forward slightly - allowing him to guide the craft to the massive landing strip.

Mason pointed the viper's nose to the trapezoid-shaped end of the flight pod, and pushed the throttle forward to half. He took care to re-engage the flight deck's gravity and unlock his computer from the _Aria_'s.

_"Viper...wait...zero-two? Viper Zero-Two?_ Aria_ control, please acknowledge,"_ came the confused sounding voice of O'Reilly.

"_Aria_ control, this is Viper Zero-Two, _Aria_ actual," Mason added on, identifying himself.

_"_Aria_ actual, control, um...sir, may I ask what you're doing?"_ O'Reilly's voice sounded almost timid.

"Just taking a quick flight, lieutenant," Mason replied, his voice grim. "No need for checks, I'll be staying well clear."

_"Roger, sir, good day."_

Mason guided the Viper out of the flight pod, remarking on the smoothness of the machine. He had known Garrett to work on his own Viper from time to time, but that was ages ago. Clearly he had kept up on his hobby quietly.

He glanced sideways at his ship as he flew slowly up and away from it. Holes and scoring littered the outside of the hull. The small flashes of welders were seen around the major damage points in the hull. Mason's heart broke to see his ship in such a broken state. He nosed the viper away from the ship and outward to the stars - away from the _Aria_, the shipyards, and Scorpion.

* * *

After quickly looking around the deck to make sure curious eyes were averted, Artemis opened the door to Mason's cabin, having long dispensed with knocking. She closed the door behind her, and called softly, "Bishop?"

Her brows furrowed slightly, hearing no reply. She glanced quickly around the cabin, determining correctly that Mason wasn't there. The wireless speaker on the wall crackled, having always been left on and scanning the air traffic and viper tac frequencies - something that sometimes annoyed her. However, her ears detected Mason's deep voice over the static -

"-_staying well clear."_

_"Roger, sir, good day."_

Artemis sighed, walking over to the window. Her eyes instantly locked onto the shape of a Viper launching rather casually from the front of the port flight pod. She shook her head, wondering to herself what he was doing. The last thing he needed to be doing, however, in her opinion, was to be flying around wounded.

She slid out of the cabin discretely, thankful that most of the ship's compliment wasn't aboard. She made her way quickly to the flight deck, concern for Mason and an irritation at his actions waging a quiet battle in her mind. She knew the commander was hurting deeply. His best friend had been killed before his eyes, and a large number of his people were dead. However she knew that he was stronger than the adversity placed in front of him. He was choosing to run from it - which didn't bode well with her. She had grown to know him enough over the past months to know that he needed to stop running and return to his former self.

Artemis arrived on the flight deck and grabbed her helmet.

"_Aria_ control this is Artemis, request launch clearance from port pod," she said quickly over the wireless.

_"What is everyone just taking joyrides now?_" O'Reilly replied.

"Listen, Andrea, can I go or not?" Artemis asked, irritated. "You know what I'm doing."

Seated at Air Traffic, the young Lieutenant O'Reilly shook her head and sighed, "Yes, I do, Artemis. Pattern is clear, it's all yours. Good luck."

_"Roger, thank you."  
_

* * *

Artemis launched the traditional way, having rounded up a knuckle dragger to give her a tow to the launch tube. She veered sharply to the right, looking at her dradis intently.

_"Captain, you may want to try looking two-eight-zero degrees, carem three-three-seven," _O'Reilly's voice said quietly into her ear.

Her eyes snapped up and caught sight of three distant pinpricks of light. She turned slowly towards them and pushed her throttle forward.

"Thanks, control," she replied.

_"No problem...bring him back, will you? We miss him."_

"So do I," she whispered. She saw the transponder of the Viper pop up on her dradis after a minute or two of travel towards Mason. She selected it, and typed a direct message to him.

_Set to Viper Tac 2 - Encryption .92_ _- Artemis_

She hit "send" and adjusted her radio to the frequency she had selected.

_"Hey"_ Mason said to her over the encrypted frequency.

"Hey," she replied, watching Mason kill his engines and fire a couple bursts on his reverse thrusters, allowing her to catch up with him.

She pulled alongside him, and momentarily marveled at the beautiful craft he was piloting.

"Nice ride, Bishop," she said, knowing who it had belonged to previously. "I think it suits you."

_"I'm hardly worthy to be flying it...but I had to get off the ship,"_ he replied, breaking his gaze away from her viper and glancing down towards his feet.

"Do you just wanna fly for awhile?" she asked, knowing the answer.

_"I'd like that."_

She nodded, giving her viper a little power. Mason mirrored the action, flying alongside her right wing.

"Scott," she began after a long silence.

_"I know," _he sighed. They flew in a wide arc - perhaps five thousand kilometers from Scorpion's atmosphere. The bluish light reflected off the planet and off the pair of Vipers, casting them in a surreal sensation. _"I know. I just can't let him go. It's going to be the hardest thing I have to do, Cassie...and I don't know how to do it. I'm afraid."_

Her eyebrows raised as she looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his face stone. Her heart broke for him, "It's ok to be afraid. I'm afraid, too."

_"Of what?"_

"Of seeing this get the better of you," she said, flying as close to him as she could. She wanted to be with him now - to hold him, telling him everything would be fine. But she knew what they were doing was perhaps the best way for him to deal with his anguish. They were, after all, pilots. What they were doing was comfortable.

She continued, "You're too strong for this. I mean, you're Bishop. _The_ Bishop. And that's just your callsign. It speaks for itself. But I thank the gods that I know the man behind the callsign. And he is so much stronger than the name. That's what I love about you. You're a rock. You're someone people can look up to. When I feel like I'm failing, I find my comfort in you, Scott. You're there for me. I love you for that."

Mason looked over at her, his eyes shining. Her face was almost pleading - but beautiful nonetheless, back dropped by the skies of Scorpion.

He sighed, _"And I love you. You have your way of doing this...I don't know how you're doing it. You've got me locked on, Cassie...I hope I can be the guy you think I am."_

"The thing is," she said. "You're better than I think you are."

_"Y'know, when you stepped into my cabin the first day you came aboard, this is probably the last thing I would have expected us to be doing right now. I thought I'd be lucky to have you give me to the time of day."_

She smiled at that, "And I thought you'd be too wrapped up in your job to give me a second look."

Mason smiled, _"How could I not? Garrett told me..."_

His voice trailed off, remembering his friend.

"Told you what?" she asked as they passed into the darkened side of Scorpion.

_"He told me that things around the _Aria_ were going to get a hell of a lot better when you arrived. Gods, what would he think of me now? Flying around here moping like this?"_

Her lips curved upward slightly in a sad smile, "I think you just answered that for yourself."

* * *

Mason sighed and rubbed his eyes, attempting to lean back in his office chair as he did so. A fresh smolder of protest from his leg slowed the effort. He frowned at this.

The wireless beeped to his right. His frown remained as he picked up the black handset, "Mason."

_"Sir, wireless from Admiral Nelson."_

"Send it through," he replied, deadpan.

_"Commander," _Nelson's voice said into his ear.

"Sir."

_"Commander, I'd like to meet with you today, if I could. Just to go over this debrief."_

"Of course, sir," Mason said, his eyebrows slowly furrowing. He had been detailed in his report. Eighteen full pages of detailed. What question could Nelson possibly have? "I'm on my way presently."

_"Thanks, Scott."_

Mason rose, pushing himself up on the arms of his chair. He straightened his dark blue coat, heavily favoring his right leg as he stood in place. He sighed again, beginning the trek out of his cabin and down the long hallway toward the docking port.

* * *

Artemis sat in her cabin, staring at the keyboard in front of her. A stack of letters sat neatly on her desk. All of which read mostly the same, excepting details.

She exhaled forcefully with frustration. She had never been placed in a situation like this before. And while a writer who could hold her own, she felt wholly inadequate to her task at hand.

_Dear Mrs..._ the letters would begin.

_By now I am certain you have received news of your loved one's passing. I write to you knowing that no words of mine can be of any solace to your grief. I write to you simply to express my deepest sympathy and the distinct honor that was mine to have served with..._

She would insert something about their service, usually.

_I won't be so pretentious as to think that a letter will do anything as to replace them. However, please take some pride in knowing they died in service to their fellow man, and in the direct protection of the Colonies. Only a chosen few are called upon to lay such a costly sacrifice upon the altar of service. Please forgive me for saying that rather than mourn them, I will thank the gods daily that they lived. _

_Sincerely,_

_Capt. Cassandra "Artemis" Schaeffer  
Commander, Air Group  
Battlestar _Aria

She stared at the stack of letters, wondering if she was overstepping her bounds. While it was customary for a fallen soldier's commanding officer to send a letter to their family, the number of pilots she had lost made her feel as if she was simply burning off letters to fulfill a formality.

_Forty seven_. Forty seven letters. She wished she could convey that she missed the faces in the ready room - and missed the conversations around the card game and at the bar. Missed their skills and their personalities.

She stared at the letters a moment longer - feeling moisture beginning to sting her eyes.

The wireless buzzed next to her desk. She picked up the phone, "CAG."

_"Ma'am, Fleet Admiral Schaeffer on the line."_

"Ok," she replied, her voice thick.

_"Cassie," _rumbled the voice of her father.

"Hey dad," she sniffed quietly, bracing the handset against her shoulder and gathering up the stack of letters.

_"Are you ok?"_ he asked, his voice wary.

"Yeah, I'm ok," she said, regaining composure.

_"Can you come over to the yards? I'm here, I'd like to see you,"_ he asked. Not in an ordering tone - but one that was genuine in its request. He asked as the father wanting to see his daughter.

"You're at Scorpion?" she asked, surprised.

_"I had to come and see you, Cassie. And to debrief personally with Admiral Nelson. What happened with the _Odyssey_ is unprecedented in the _

"Sure, I'll be right over."

_"Ok sweetie."  
_

* * *

Mason walked slowly down the brightly lit hallways of the Scorpion Shipyards. Being a Colonial Fleet outpost, the yards not only served as a maintenance port, but also as a full on station - a central hub for trade and commerce. Many people, both civilian and military passed through the shipyards in the course of travel among the colonies.

The same held true for mason. He had lost count of how many times he had been to the station in the course of his twenty one years of service. Naturally, he avoided the main areas of travel. He was already getting enough astonished looks from colonial fleet personnel as he limped towards the administrative offices.

He kept his eyes downward as he walked, not really feeling like talking to anyone along the way. Whispers followed him as he strode through the doors of the Colonial Fleet offices.

"Commander," said a female voice.

He stopped, looking up. He drew himself up and offered a salute to Admiral Helena Cain.

An attractive but stern-looking woman, she returned the salute. Her face immediately softened, however, as she stepped towards him and briefly embraced her friend.

"Scott, my gods," she said, stepping back and surveying him as she gripped his shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "We took a beating, but we're ok. When did you get in?"

"We arrived a few hours ago," she said, dropping her hands and folding her arms. Cain leaned against the wall, looking at him sympathetically. "Is there anything the _Pegasus_ can do for you?"

"Truthfully, ma'am, I believe we're doing well now that we've rested for a few days. The _Aria_ will be here awhile, that much is certain," Mason said, shifting his weight to his right leg.

She nodded, "You did well, Scott. It's good to see you."

"And you, Helena," he said, addressing his friend by her first name. She offered a sad smile, squeezing his shoulder as she walked past him.

He turned, walking a short distance further down the hallway before knocking on a solid wooden door.

"Scott, come in," Nelson said as he opened the door. Mason nodded to him as he stepped into the office.

Nelson shut the door behind Mason, turned, and gripped the commander's hand warmly. Mason returned the handshake, and immediately drew himself to attention and saluted Fleet Admiral Schaeffer, who somehow appeared from behind Nelson.

Schaeffer returned the salute, and offered his hand as well. Mason shook it as well.

"Commander," Schaeffer said in his trademark bass rumble. "Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Mason replied, shifting his weight again. This didn't go unnoticed to the two admirals.

"Scott, gods, please, sit down and rest your frakking leg," Nelson said, gesturing to a group of thick leather chairs surrounding a table.

Mason nodded, taking a seat and accepting the cup of coffee offered to him by Nelson.

Schaeffer folded his tall frame into a chair across from Mason and also accepted coffee. After a sip, he looked at Mason, "On a personal note, Commander, thank you for bringing my daughter home safe."

A brief flash of emotion crossed Mason's face - a reaction the admiral had difficulty placing. The look didn't linger, however, as Mason replied, "She's an exceptional pilot, sir. The best I've ever seen. I highly doubt my presence did much to bring her home. In fact, it's direct testament to her that I'm able to be here to speak to you gentlemen today."

"Something that puzzled me and Admiral Schaeffer, Scott," Nelson said. "Is that fact that you didn't return to the _Aria_ upon engaging the _Odyssey_."

Mason's face darkened, "Sir, I -"

"No matter," Schaeffer said. "I place my commanders in my Battlestars for a reason. Whatever lead you to make the choice you did, Mason, I won't question. You did what you did, and I'll back that decision."

Mason felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, slightly. "Thank you, sir," he replied. "That means alot to me."

Nelson nodded, "The fact that you came home with as many of your people as you did, along with the _Aria_ is a testament in itself. You were faced with a formidable enemy, and the fact that you all weren't completely destroyed speaks for itself."

"It still cost us dearly, sir," Mason's voice was dark.

* * *

Artemis straightened her blue uniform jacket and smoothed her hair as she stepped into the Colonial Fleet offices. While she didn't garner the notoriety Mason did striding through the office - several people did double takes, partly due to the Battlestar _Aria_ patch on her left shoulder, and partly due to the fact a beautiful woman was walking through the office.

She knew the way to the admiralty's offices better than most. Something she wasn't necessarily thrilled about, but something she took in stride. She walked quickly down the hall to the office her father usually occupied while he was in the shipyard. She knocked on the door.

She waited a full minute, and knocked again.

A passing yeoman paused, turning to her, "Captain, are you looking for the Admiral?"

She turned, looking at the young man with a confused expression, "Um...yes."

The yeoman stood, transfixed momentarily. He snapped out of his trance, blushing furiously, "He's - er - I mean, the admiral...I mean, Flee-"

"Where's he at, yeoman?" Artemis asked slowly, smiling.

"Admiral Nelson's office, ma'am," he stammered, betraying his eighteen years of age.

"Thanks," she replied, turning quickly and hurrying down the hallway, leaving the yeoman in a wave of vanilla and roses.

* * *

She knocked on Nelson's door moments later. It swung open instantly, revealing -

"Bishop?" she smiled widely.

He flashed her a warning look, shaking his head slightly from side to side. He stepped into the room, gesturing her inside. She surveyed the room in a fraction of a second, seeing her father standing with Nelson.

"Bishop?" the Fleet Admiral asked, his green eyes fixated on Mason, then Artemis, then back to Mason.

Mason tucked his lips inside his mouth momentarily, then opened his mouth to speak.

"Never mind," Schaeffer said, shaking his head. "It's good to see you, Cassie."

"And you, dad," she said, hugging the admiral tightly.

"Sir, if I may -" Nelson began, looking nervous.

"She can know. Hell, Adrian, rumors will start spreading soon enough anyway," the elder Schaeffer said, stepping away from his daughter and taking his seat again.

"Sir?" Mason asked.

"Sit down, both of you," Nelson said, looking haggard and...afraid?

They took their seats around the table - Mason being careful to avoid direct eye contact with Artemis. Admiral Schaeffer was still casting glances between him and his daughter. Mason couldn't shake the feeling that the admiral had caught on instantly - and the secret was out. He feared this more than the impending news that made Nelson appear so uncomfortable.

"Commander, we sent a task force out to the wreckage of the _Odyssey_ to recover some of the debris to see if we could find out why Commander Greene suddenly went section eight on us," Nelson began. "To be frank, Scott, there wasn't much out there. You really frakked that thing up."

"Commander Emory really frakked that thing up," Mason corrected, quietly.

Nelson was silent a minute - Emory having been a friend of his, as well. Admiral Schaeffer bowed his head, rubbing his creased forehead with his hand.

"My mistake. To his credit, he knew where he was flying. He must have detonated his payload right over the tylium fuel storage or something to that effect," Nelson continued.

"I will be putting him in for the Order of Kobul," Mason said, again in a quiet tone.

"He'll get it," Schaeffer nodded slowly. "I've already seen to it."

Nelson paused momentarily, then continued, "the task force brought back something that is deeply disturbing to all of us."

Mason risked a glance over at Artemis. She returned it, fleetingly. It was enough, though, to tell Mason that she was just as concerned as he was at the impending news.

Nelson looked to Schaeffer momentarily. The Fleet Admiral nodded to him, still silent. Nelson rose and walked to his desk. He opened a locked drawer and extracted a black weatherproof briefcase of some size. He set it on the desk and unlocked it, and pulled out its contents.

Mason's guts laced with ice as Nelson set the object on the wooden surface of the desk. Artemis inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hands. Schaeffer remained stoic, his face dark.

It was iconic. Its very design was meant to strike fear in the hearts of humans. The lighting of the room reflected off of its domed head - casting odd flares to the corners of the office. Its eyes were in a sharply angled "V," and its mouth, an elongated, darkened depression. There was no mistake as to what it was - or where it came from.

"Oh my gods," Artemis whispered. "That's..."

Nelson confirmed what they all already knew.

"A cylon."


	10. Chapter 10

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

I really needed to get the next part of the story up, Reader. It's been somewhat eating at me. It's a bit of an emotional roller coaster for this segment - I would be lying to you, dear Reader, if I said my eyes didn't sting a little writing this. However, I hope that I've achieved some manner of balance, submitted, of course, for your approval. Thank you so much for taking your valuable time to stop by and continue the journey with Mason, Artemis and the _Aria_. And my very humble thanks, as always, to you that have subscribed and/or left reviews. I'll keep writing for _**you** _

* * *

10.

"There's got to be an explanation for all this, and especially that _thing_" Artemis said. "It's got to be left over from the first cylon war - or maybe just a war souvenir that Greene had tooling around the _Odyssey_. Maybe it was just floating out there for years and the task force just found it today."

"We've explored those options," Nelson sighed. "Let me show you."

Artemis and Mason rose and walked to Nelson's desk. The Rear Admiral extracted another case and withdrew another Centurion head, placing it side by side with the one recovered from the _Odyssey_'s wreckage.

"Frak," Mason breathed, examining the juxtaposition of the heads. The latter was older - less streamlined. It was the same model that he remembered training fight against years ago. He remembered the countless rounds he fired towards them, and the look of them with smoking bullet holes in the center of the inverted chevron.

"A newer model," Artemis whispered, paling.

"Yes," Admiral Schaeffer confirmed, still seated by the table. "A new model."

Silence fell thick in the office as the four officers silently considered what this meant. The Cylons had not been heard from in years. Many had written their race off.

"What do we do now?" Mason asked, looking at Nelson.

Nelson was silent, deep in thought.

"I'll be returning to Caprica after the celebrations tonight," Schaeffer said, rising. "To discuss the matter directly with President Adar. Until then, we wait."

"Celebrations?" Mason asked, puzzled.

"Colonial Day is in two day's time, commander," Schaeffer reminded him.

"Of course, sir," he replied. Colonial Day was preceded by galas and celebrations, sometimes as far as five days in advance. Traditionally, the admiralty made an effort to go from colony to colony to partake in celebrations, before attending the official celebration on Caprica.

"I'll be joining the Admiral on Virgon in two days time for the _Galactica_'s decommissioning," Nelson continued. "And I'll discuss our next move with him. For now, the _Aria_ will remain here to rest and repair. The yards are well protected, especially considering the _Pegasus_ is now here. That's four battlestars and two Berzerkers here. I think we can at least let ourselves remain in a guarded state of rest for the time being, Scott."

Mason nodded, concurring. This latest news had sent a cold chill into his gut - a chill that had taken up residence and refused to leave.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Schaeffer said, trying to put confidence back into his voice. He turned to Artemis, "See you tonight?"

"Oh, um...yeah, I'll be there," she said, her gaze still focused on the Cylon's head resting on Nelson's desk.

"Good," Schaeffer said, kissing her lightly on the cheek as he made to go. "And Commander, I'm sure your presence would be missed tonight if you were absent."

"I'll be there, sir," Mason replied.

"Excellent. I'm sure there's many people wanting to hear the story. It's a shame a popular guy like yourself will have to go stag to such an event," Schaeffer said, his eyes flashing.

Mason caught the meaning in the Admiral's statement. He wasn't necessarily keen on it. However, he nodded, "I'll manage, sir."

The Admiral nodded, shaking Mason's hand as he made for the exit. Mason locked eyes with him. His expression was hard to read - however his iron grip told him everything he needed to know. He returned the Admiral's grip equally hard. He knew that his motive at that particular moment was personal, not professional.

Mason wasn't exactly sure what made him more uneasy - the prospect of another Cylon war, or Artemis's father knowing that her daughter had fallen for her Commander.

* * *

"Honor guard, color guard, uniformed personnel...atten-_hut!_"

Hundreds of black, spit-shined boots clicked together, sending a wave of thunder across the _Aria_'s hanger deck.

The drums began a slow cadence, breaking the silence with the tightly tuned bass sounding almost like the _Aria_'s heavy guns, booming at a steady pace. The snares rolled crisply.

Mason stood at rigid attention as the drums marched slowly up the aisle. The pipes started slowly after - a low humming noise punctuated by a mournful, high melody. The pipers marched slowly after the drums, leaving the commander standing at the front of the honor guard. As he always did, he cut an imposing figure in his uniform, the cap making him seem taller than he actually was. To his right, dressed in black, was Nina Emory. She hung onto his arm, her face stone.

He began the slow march toward the front of the gathered rows of gray. His sword occasionally clattered against his leg as he walked - his sidearm feeling heavy. His heart beat quickened as he came to the realization of what he was doing. He was leading his Garrett's widow to the funeral of her husband. His best friend.

Mason assisted Nina to her seat at the front of the hanger bay before crisply marching to the front of the hanger. He executed a crisp about-face, turning to the back.

"Honor guard, for-ward..._march!"_ he bellowed, his voice echoing off the ceiling.

The eight honor guard members - four to a side - began a crisp march down the aisle. There was no coffin - as Emory's body was not found. Instead, they carried four things with them. A large, framed picture, taken from the day he graduated flight school. His Viper wings. His sword. And a colonial flag.

They marched slowly, purposefully, to the front. They fanned out with precision, coming to a halt simultaneously, standing shoulder to shoulder. Slowly, they each placed their item on a table that had been set in the front, excepting the flag bearer, who took his post to the side.

Mason turned slowly, walking to a podium that had been placed to the side of the table. His footfalls and the metallic clag of his sword against his leg were the only sounds.

He took off his hat, and placed it inside the podium. He rested his hands on either side of the podium and stared at the slanted table before him. It was blank.

"We gather here today to remember the life and service of Lieutenant Commander Garrett Emory," he began, his voice resonating around the hanger bay. He paused, trying to find the words.

"For twenty years, I knew Garrett as the definition of an officer in the Colonial Fleet. His dedication to the service, and his genuine compassion to his fellow officers, his men and women, were unmatched. But his devotion as a friend, and a loving husband far outstripped his accomplishments in the service.

"I often turned to him for advice and counsel, and he would always deliver with words of wisdom. Or some wisecrack. Sometimes both. He wasn't always a yes man. He told me things how they were - even if they weren't the most tactful things to say. He never spared the truth - a quality that I admire about him."

Mason paused, his voice shaking.

"He was a true friend. A loss such as his makes us question the will of the gods and the fate that has been laid down before us. We are angered, saddened, and lost now, with his loss and the loss of so many of our comrades in the skies of battle. We may now ask the question 'how do we carry on in the face of such tragedy?' I won't pretend to know the answer. But I think if we were to have asked the people who died - people like Garrett - they would tell us to keep doing as we always have. To carry on. To continue to serve with pride and distinction aboard the finest battlestar in the fleet. To avenge their deaths against the enemies of the colonies with speed and prejudice. To be the people they would expect us to be."

The commander swallowed hard, tears falling down his face. The gathered crew's faces remained stony - however their faces shone in the light with tears of their own.

Mason looked up, scanning the faces of the crew. He immediately picked out Artemis, seated a few rows back. She looked back at him - her eyes wet, but her face telling him so many things in a fraction of a second. Her eyes gleamed with the distinctive pride in another individual that only love could give. Her expression was soft, comforting and encouraging.

He stepped back from the podium, placing his hat on again. The honor guard moved crisply forward, their movements mirrored in one another. The flag bearer marched forward and slowly lowered the colonial flag into the sixteen waiting hands of the guard. With speed and precision, the flag was spread flat, held taught by the hands. With careful, practiced movements, the flag was folded into a neat square - the Colonial crest facing outward.

The guard turned as one, facing the direction of Mason with a blindingly fast turn. The flag bearer marched to Mason, stopping just short of the commander.

Mason saluted the man, and the flag before accepting it - holding it close to him between his hands. The flag bearer returned the salute before turning about.

He then turned crisply, and walked slowly toward Nina. He came to attention briefly before kneeling before the widowed Nina.

"Nina," he began, gritting his teeth and swallowing hard. "On behalf of the President, the Vice President, the Colonial Fleet, and the crew of the Battlestar _Aria_, I present you with this flag in remembrance of Garrett and his service to the Twelve Colonies."

He placed the flag gently into her hands.

She whispered quietly, only for Mason to hear, "Thank you, Scott. He'll always be with us - and he'll always be flying with you."

Mason clenched his jaw, nodding and blinking furiously. He drew himself to attention again, saluting Nina crisply.

He turned again, facing the launch tube on the side of the deck. It opened slowly - revealing Emory's viper, hooked and ready for launch.

"Honor guard - for-ward..._march!"_

The honor guard marched forward to the viper - one member holding Emory's wings with reverence in between his white gloved hands. They came to a halt - four to a side of the craft. The member holding the fallen commander's wings climbed the ladder of the Viper slowly - placing the wings on the ejection seat.

The guard retreated to behind the fighter. Mason turned, walking to the front of a line of pilots that had formed. He slowly removed his senior viper pilot's wings from his uniform, and walking to the cockpit, tossed them in.

One by one, each pilot gathered walked forward, throwing their wings into the open cockpit. Bringing up the back was Artemis, who threw in the wings of the eighth squadron - who had volunteered for flyover and escort. She slowly unclipped her wings and threw them in, landing with the others with a soft clink of gold against gold.

The cockpit canopy was slowly lowered as Mason said aloud, "Be it known to any traveler who crosses the path of this craft that it is carried on not only by the spirit of Lieutenant Commander Garrett Emory - but also his fellow pilots."

The Viper was loaded into the launch tube, the heavy blast doors closing behind it. The wireless speaker crackled with the voice of O'Reilly.

_"Viper Zero-Two."_

Silence.

_"Viper Zero-Two."_

Silence.

_"Viper Zero-Two, _Aria _control. Angel, you are cleared for launch - speed and heading to your discretion. Fair winds and following seas, sir."_

"_Aria_, atten-_hut!_" Mason managed to roar. Boots slammed together again. _"_Preseeeent..._arms!"_

Hundreds of white gloves flew to hundreds of brows in unison as the pipes picked up a slow march. The roar of the catapult was heard - launching Emory's viper clear of the ship. The windows showed the Eighth squadron fly over the launch pod in impeccable formation, splitting slightly to allow the empty fighter to take the point on their formation. They flew tight around the fighter - guarding it as it flew away from the _Aria_, destined for places unknown.

As a final tribute, the _Aria_'s guns unleashed a full broadside of blanks - the weapons launching yellow flame far out, and causing the whole of the battlestar to shudder.

_"Aria_, ordeeeeer..._arms!"_ Mason bellowed. Hundreds of white gloves fell to the sides of the sea of gray. _"_Dismissed!"

The formation of gray slowly broke. Mason stood rigid, watching as the Eights broke their formation in wide, graceful arcs. He stood for a long time, motionless, watching Emory's viper float slowly away, until it was simply a bright spot among the stars.

* * *

"It just doesn't make any sense," Hopkins said, astonished. "What would having Cylons aboard the _Odyssey_ have to do with her turning against us?"

Mason nodded, seated behind his desk, having not said much since the funeral.

"And the pilots, as we saw, were all...well, _human_," Artemis mused quietly, seated across from Hopkins. "There weren't any Cylon raiders, or Centurions behind the controls. Anything like that. Hell, Commander, you _spoke_ to Greene yourself."

"I know," Mason nodded. "And that's what concerns me. Were they brainwashed? Or was it just a really good Cylon imitation of Greene? I mean, we never _saw_ the guy."

"Still doesn't explain the human pilots. Or the _Odyssey_'s vipers," Artemis said.

"I trust we'll get more direction once there's more to know," Mason mumbled. "Until then...Erik, one more thing."

Mason reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, velvet covered jewelry box.

"The fact is, the _Aria_ needs an XO," he said, placing the box on his desk and opening it, revealing a pair of Lieutenant Commander's insignia. "And you're it."

Hopkins's eyes went wide, "Sir, I can't possibly -"

"Yes, you can," Mason said, rising to his feet. "You've shown remarkable fortitude over the past weeks. The crew respects you, as do I."

Mason took the new collar brass, removing the old Captain's insignia, and placing one of the new on his right collar. Artemis rose, and placed the other on his left.

"Congratulations, Leiutenant Commander Hopkins," Mason said, saluting him, then shaking his hand.

Hopkins grinned, squeezing the commander's hand.

"Congratulations, sir," Artemis smiled at him, saluting, then kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"I'm sure your presence will be welcome at the...thing tonight," Mason said, returning to his seat behind his desk.

"Yes, sir," Hopkins replied. "But I'd like permission to remain aboard the _Aria_ sir, to oversee repairs in your stead. I honestly hate these sorts of things."

Mason considered this a moment, "Granted."

"Thank you, sir," Hopkins said. "I intend to exceed your expectations, sir, with my new assignment."

"I only demand one thing, Erik," Mason said, a hint of a smirk forming.

"Excellence, sir," Hopkins smiled.

"Dismissed," Mason said, nodding.

Hopkins made his exit from Mason's cabin, closing the door behind him. Mason sighed and leaned back in his chair, his left leg protesting slightly.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Artemis said, drawing her legs up underneath her.

"Why?" Mason asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Because that was hard, but you did it anyway," she said, looking at him and smiling sadly. "No one can replace Emory, but you're taking the steps to make sure your people are taken care of. They needed an XO, you're right. And you made it happen, despite your feelings."

"That's my job," he sighed. "Hopkins isn't Emory, and he won't be as good as he was. But we don't have the luxury of choosing when the service may demand something of us that we may not be ready for. Sometimes, in fact, it reveals the best in us."

She nodded, looking at the floor, "Can you believe the nerve of my father?"

"Yes," Mason almost smiled. "I can."

"Like he has any right to tell me what to do with my life," she vented, frustrated. "For the love of frak, Bishop, I'm thirty four!"

"I know," he smirked. "And I'm the commander of a fully armored battlestar, three time fleet top gun, graduate summa cum laude of the war college, classified recipient of the Order of Kobul, and yet I seem to be an inadequate date for the Admiral's daughter, still."

"Oh bullshit," she said, sneaking behind his desk - careful to sit on Mason's right leg. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Of course you are."

"For his sake, though, maybe we shouldn't show up together to the...thing," he mumbled thoughtfully as she kissed him lightly.

"Bishop, it's a military _ball_, not a _thing_," she said, smiling.

"Whatever it is, I'd just as soon not frak with the Admiral at it," he sighed. "I mean, I'd just as soon not go. I really don't feel like having a party after this evening."

"You're going, and I'll just have to meet you there," Artemis rose to her feet. "Do you honestly think Garrett would let you pass up an opportunity to take a girl to the whole..._thing_ as you call it, and the opporunity to frak with the Admiral?"

"He'd think it'd be hysterical," he said, allowing a small smile.

"Right," she nodded, turning for the door.

"Where are you going?" Mason asked.

"To get ready," she replied.

"It's not for five frakking hours!" Mason cried, looking at his watch.

"Right," she said, shifting her eyes from side to side, pursing her lips.

"My gods, you're telling me that my CAG, the best pilot in the fleet, who can launch a Viper and engage an enemy with a one minute scramble time, needs five _hours_ to get ready for a frakking _ball_?" Mason asked, astonished.

"You don't know a thing about women, Bishop," Artemis shook her head, exiting the cabin.

Mason furrowed his eyebrows, realizing that she was absolutely right.

* * *

Mason slowly shifted blue uniform jackets to the side of his small closet, reaching for his only other set of dress grays he had. While his other uniform wasn't necessarily dirty from the service for Emory, he didn't feel right wearing it again. Especially to something that was to be hailed as a celebration.

He hung the uniform up against the door of his closet - beginning the long process of aligning his awards and citations both along his left chest and bandolier. While the particular misalignment of these small monuments of gold and silver may have been indistinguishable to even a careful eye, Mason held a distinct respect for the uniform. It would be perfect, or he wouldn't wear it. Anything secondary would be unacceptable.

After preparing his uniform, he shuffled to his bathroom and drew a small amount of scalding hot water in the sink. He placed his shaving razor gently in the water, and looked into the mirror. He sighed, the lines in his face making themselves very apparent. Perhaps it was the small accumulation of gray stubble that made him look older than he was.

_I'm thirty nine, look forty nine, and feel like I'm fifty nine. _

He grunted in frustration as he spread cream over his face. Such was life. Especially a life committed to the dynamic world of the service. He reflected on this as he scraped the rough beard away from his face. Dynamic. It was a fair word to describe it. Such as the day was today. Beginning with one of the hardest things he had ever done in terms of emotional toll, and ending with an event to be heralded as a celebration.

He rinsed his face off with cold water and dried with a small towel. After a quick rub of aftershave, he donned his uniform as he had done thousands of times before. Many people complained about how stiff and uncomfortable the uniform was. Mason never did. To him, it was a comfort in itself to wear it.

A final clasp of his shoulder braids, and he surveyed himself in the mirror for his own final inspection. Satisfied, he secured his sword to his belt and grabbed his hat.

_Took me all of half an hour, I don't know what the hell she means with this five hours bullshit..._

The ballroom at the Scorpion Shipyards was more of a multipurpose room that had been dressed up nicely for the occasion. Mason raised an eyebrow slightly as he checked his hat and sword at the coat check.

While the formality of announcing the guests had been (thankfully) dispensed with, his attempt to sneak into the party unnoticed failed slightly. As we walked in, a small smattering of applause was heard. Heads turned toward the door and the stray cheer was heard.

Mason nodded with the smallest wave in recent memory before expediting his way to the bar.

"Commander!" roared the voice of Chief Rummel.

"Chief," Mason nodded to Rummel, who was holding court with a group of knuckle draggers at a nearby table. Mason spotted no fewer than twenty empty beer bottles on the table before them.

"Going to come hoist a few with the enlisted boys and girls here in a few?" Rummel asked.

"You bet, Chief," Mason replied, slowing down only slightly as he passed the table. He arrived without much further incident at the bar, and ordered the same brand smoky liquor that Emory had stocked in his bar.

A small ensemble of stringed instruments struck up a tune in the corner. Mason turned around, leaning his back against the bar, and resting his left foot on the railing. His leg only ached slightly now - more of an annoyance than an actual pain. He took a pull of his drink, feeling the warmth creep comfortably into his stomach again.

A quick survey of the room told him all the major players had already arrived. The Admirals Schaeffer and Nelson were in conversation with the Scorpion representative to the Quorum of Twelve, the Viper jocks were carrying on as they usually did, and Mason smirked slightly as he saw young Petty Officer Parker dancing with Petty Officer Cornell, both of them smiling widely.

"They're a cute couple."

Mason turned slowly, and forgot how to breathe the moment he saw Artemis.

Her dress was a deep shade of blue - almost violet. Cut low enough to be daring, but still retaining modesty. It swept the floor slightly behind her. Her lightly tanned skin complemented it to perfection. In a classy touch, she wore matching opera gloves. Her shining brunette hair was worn down, and her eyes, smoky in appearance, narrowed as she giggled at the ogling Commander.

Mason was still speechless, holding his drink.

"Bishop, you're frakking hopeless," she said, grabbing his drink and taking a small sip, leaving an imprint of her full lips on the glass. "Come on."

She took his hand, raising it up and placing hers in it. While the appearance was that Bishop was leading Artemis to the dance floor - quite the opposite was truly occurring. No one took time to notice, however, as heads turned along their path. Even the pilots stopped drinking to look. Indeed, Scooter had paused with his drink mid-way to his mouth, the beverage spilling out of it onto the floor.

"-is that the CAG?"

"-and the _commander?"_

"No frakkin' way!"

"Holy mother of Athena she's _gorgeous_-"

Mason slowly crash-landed back to the present, blinking hard. His trademark smirk slowly reappeared as Artemis swept in front of him, placing her left hand on his shoulder, and grasping his left with her right. He placed his hand on the inward curve that was her trim waist. She smiled seductively at him as they danced slowly to the flowing music. He savored her scent - the mixture of vanilla and sweet flowers that made his head cloudy.

She, in turn, felt her heart soar as the confident smirk returned to his face for what seemed like the first time in years. And while she was the main reason heads were turning in the room, she couldn't help but notice several ornate hair styles turning as the commander passed by. He was a picturesque version of a soldier - rugged in appearance, but still impeccably dressed. His demeanor was that again of the Bishop she had first met - infectious confidence, inspiring experience, and youthful energy.

Even the head of Fleet Admiral Adam Schaeffer turned as he watched his daughter being lead to the wooden dance floor by Mason.

"Sir, your daughter looks lovely this evening," Nelson whispered to him. "What a lovely couple."

"Yes," Schaeffer growled before taking a long pull from his drink. "Quite."

Mason almost allowed himself to smile as the music crescendoed with Artemis dutifully following his lead. While he had never been accused of being a good dancer, he could at least hold his own. Something that was never formally asked of him, but something that was expected of him in his position was that of acting the part at these events. Being the toast of the ball, though, was not the reason for his smile. He felt...different somehow, as he moved with Artemis. Almost as though he was complete, and no further travel was necessary. All of his career had been spent asking the question of "What's next?" Now, though, his head was clear of such inquiries. He wasn't looking forward to the next step. Rather, he was content to remain as he was, in the moment.

The song ended with a bright-sounding staccato note, and with Mason bringing Artemis in close - pressing her torso against his, his forearm resting snugly in the small of her back. Their foreheads touched lightly. Mason breathed her in, the small smile remaining. Artemis wasn't as reserved in her emotion as she rested her hands on his chest, beaming.

The applause after the song was more than a little enthusiastic. The couple was immediately dragged apart - Artemis being folded in to an exquisitely gowned party of _Aria_ female crew members - none of them making any attempt to hide their jealousy. Mason, however, was being received by the pilots as something like a living legend - with drinks materializing on the spot. Scooter actually was bold enough to high-five the commander in the company gathered.

The music struck up again, with conversation roaring. Mason managed to escape the throng of pilots to survey the party. He was happy to see that the majority of the crew of the _Aria_, excepting the on watch, had been able to make it. _They deserve this_ he thought. _They deserve every minute_.

"Commander," rumbled a bass voice behind him. "Would you join me for a drink?"

_Oh shit._

He turned, almost blinded by the light reflecting off of Admiral Schaeffer's countless awards, "Of course, sir."

He walked with the Admiral to a quiet balcony with a view of the shipyards below. The sight was impressive, with numerous small vessels coming and going, dwarfed by the mammoth battlestars docked to the yards like giant slumbering beasts. The light reflected off Scorpion was reflected into the room, along with soft lamp lighting, giving the balcony a comforting glow.

Schaeffer grasped the expensive liquor with both hands as he leaned on the balcony railing, resting his forearms on the ornate wood. Mason leaned against the railing with his right arm, taking the weight off his leg. They were both silent for perhaps a moment or two, each taking a pull on their drink.

"How long?" the Admiral began.

"Sir?" Mason asked, knowing exactly what Schaeffer was inquiring, but not biting at it.

"Let's not bullshit, Scott," he sighed, looking far and away towards the surface of Scorpion, not making eye contact. "How long have you and my daughter been seeing each other?"

_Oh frak. Oh frak, oh frak, oh frak._

Mason sighed, ashamed of himself for thinking that such a thing could be hidden from such a man as Schaeffer. It was almost as if he had insulted the Admiral's intelligence by trying to hide it.

"A week or two, perhaps, after she began serving on my ship," he replied, quietly. As an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

Schaeffer nodded, considering this. He took another pull at his drink, remaining silent.

Mason's pulse quickened at the Admiral's silence. He stood there, waiting for his judgement to be rendered from not only his _boss_ but Artemis's _father_. The silence pressed on. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Sir, if I may just-"

"Listen," Schaeffer said. "These things happen."

Mason blinked, unsure of how to reply.

The Admiral turned, resting his back on the railing. He looked, finally, at Mason, sizing him up. He continued, "It's damn near impossible to keep things like this from happening when people work so closely together with the frequency they do on a ship of war. You know this."

The young commander nodded, taking a gulp of his drink in order to avoid replying.

Schaeffer went on, unperturbed, "It's against the regulations. We also know this, both of us. Which is why I need to officially ask you to discontinue this relationship, or face consequences."

A wave of emotion hit Mason at once. Shock, sadness, confusion, and anger. His world as he knew it had instantly fractured. He wouldn't lose Artemis. But to lose the _Aria_ also proved to be an unthinkable prospect. There had to be a way. He opened this mouth to speak - but was silenced by a hand held up by the Admiral.

"However," the bass voice rumbled, "unofficially, I can tell you that there are many things that go on around this fleet that I am blissfully ignorant to. I'm sure much of what I don't know doesn't hurt me."

Mason continued to be speechless - his curiosity at the Admiral's double standard now resounding predominantly in his head.

"Which is why I can also say that this is the happiest that I've ever seen Cassie," the older man sighed, as though admitting defeat. "Ever since she began serving with you, Scott, she has literally glowed. I'm so proud to see her succeed like this - and to have you there to be with her as she accomplishes all of this is a comfort to me. I'm sorry to say that I don't know you personally as well as I'd like to, but your professional record speaks for itself. Despite your age, you're probably the best commander I have in my fleet. And I guess you can't ask much more out of a man if he's going to steal your daughter's heart."

Mason drained the rest of his drink with gusto in order to keep from passing out.

"Sir, I...well I really don't know what the frak to say," Mason swore, his mind racing.

Schaeffer laughed gruffly like the old sailor he was. Mason's eyes raked over the Admiral's commendations - displayed predominately at the top were the Admiral's senior Viper pilot wings. Underneath all the brass, benath all the regalia, Mason realized he was speaking with just another pilot.

"Just be the man I know you are, Scott," Schaeffer said, with finality. "Take good care of my daughter. She's a hell of a pilot, and a good officer. But she is still my little girl. I'm sure the prospect of commanding tankers full of tyllium doesn't sound very appealing to you, does it?"

"No, sir," Mason said, his voice finding itself again.

"Then I know you won't break her heart," the old Admiral finally cracked a smile. "If you love your ship half as much as you obviously love my daughter, then I don't have a thing to worry about. You'll keep your professional and personal lives separate, I already know. So, in all reality, there's nothing more to be said on the subject."

Mason exhaled a long, pent-up sigh of relief. The weight of the prospect of Schaeffer uncovering his secret had finally been lifted. And with a favorable outcome. Holy frak.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his back straightening. The pain in his leg had suddenly disappeared. Whether it was a testament to the alcohol, or adrenaline was up for debate. He accepted the Admiral's outstretched hand, and shook it with confidence.

"Now get your ass back there and dance with her or something," Schaeffer said, informally issuing the order.

"Aye, sir," Mason replied, smiling. He saluted, as was customary. He turned, walking back towards the ballroom as though he were floating on air.

"Commander, one more thing," the Admiral called.

Mason stopped, looking over his shoulder, "Sir?"

"You still owe me a frakking Raptor."


	11. Chapter 11

NOTE: Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.

The quoted lines from Season 1, Episode 1 "Miniseries, Night 1" are the work of writers Ronald D. Moore and Christopher Eric James.

* * *

11.

Mason opened his eyes instantly with the _Aria_'s usual wake-up call.

_"Revile, Revile - time zero-five-thirty - Battlestar_ Aria_ day crew please report to stations in thirty minutes."_

He blinked a few times to be sure of where he was. Artemis stirred from his side, turning her head into his chest. Her hair was silky against his bare chest and shoulders. Her bare skin was soft and warm against his.

The commander raised his head up slightly, surveying his cabin as memories came flooding back from the previous evening. He saw the remains of a beautiful evening gown on the floor; his dress gray jacket was discarded carelessly on his desk. He also found it strange that he didn't have a headache.

His head collapsed back on his pillow, a smile forming on his face as his mind rewound the previous evening...

* * *

"-and to our commander - despite the fact that he's barely old enough to buy a drink-"

Rummel was on a roll.

"And!" the Chief shouted over the bellowing laughter. "Y'know, when I found out that the commander was coming to the _Aria_...my heart was filled...with a sudden want to retire."

Mason laughed along with the rest of the small crowd as he held his glass aloft.

"I had to wonder if the new commander was going to put an age restriction on old knuckle draggers walking around the ship, thinkin' we'd put a damper on his style" Rummel continued. "But, as we came to discover, not only was he smart enough _not_ to ask us what we do-"

Raven, overcome in hysterics, had to take a chair.

"He also proved to be pretty good at what he does. Who would've thought?" Rummel concluded, smiling. "So raise a glass! To our beloved ship, the _Aria_, and her commander - who is still probably young enough to be my son...gentlemen, ladies..."

"Frak you!" Mason yelled enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd as he downed his drink. More laughter with cheers followed the toast. Mason smiled as he made his way back out of the crowd gathered around Rummel, shaking hands and slapping backs.

He scanned the rest of the crowd quickly, hoping he didn't have enough alcohol on board to cloud his vision. He spied Artemis again, seated with a group of women, all of them red in the face and giggling.

The band's pace slowed noticeably. Feeling somewhat emboldened by the liquor, and somewhat embracing the presence his commander's insignia, he walked over to the small gathering, and ran his fingertips along Artemis's bare shoulders.

Artemis inhaled sharply, recognizing the touch without having to look. She inhaled the scent of his cologne - the same scent that swept her back to the woods of Caprica. She looked up at the handsome, smiling man standing above her. She took in the sight of his square shoulders and impeccably pressed uniform, his medals and wings shining. His blue eyes almost glowed as he looked at her, a mix of pride, care, and longing.

"May I?" he asked, extending a white gloved hand.

"Of course," she replied, taking his hand. The rest of the women stared, some with their mouths agape, and others wearing expressions of smoldering, smirking jealously.

She wrapped her arms around his neck - he rested his hands on the tops of her hips. She leaned in close to him, not particularly caring who saw them.

"I'm under strict orders from a certain Admiral," he whispered into her fragrant hair. "To dance with his daughter."

"Really?" she asked, smiling.

"Of course, this isn't officially happening," he said, resting his head against hers as they swayed slowly. "But, as a certain Admiral put it, what he doesn't know doesn't hurt him."

Her heart soared in her chest. Her father liked Bishop. Finally, a guy that hadn't been scared off by just the presence of her dad - and even more, someone he approved of. Admittedly, it was hard to impress someone in her father's position. Several had tried, and failed.

She silently thanked the gods for this as she ran her fingers slowly along Mason's collar. Feeling his presence radiating around her, his arms holding her, was enough to send her into a state of trance. Somewhere deep inside her, a small fire began to burn.

In turn, Bishop had a hard time focusing on the music. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her up and hold her tightly, right there in front of everyone. However, they were already extraordinarily close, even fore an unofficial official relationship. Casting his eyes up towards the crew remaining in the ballroom, however, he saw many of them looking on and smiling. Artemis was right. They loved the idea.

"I think I need to get you back to your cabin, Commander," Artemis whispered playfully to him.

"Tired already, Captain?" he replied, smirking.

"Hardly," she said, digging her nails into the back of his neck through her gloves. She pulled back slightly, just far enough to look him in the eye, "Tallyho, Bishop."

"Roger, tally one," he replied in the pilot's vernacular, returning her smoldering look with one of his own.

* * *

While they were careful to take separate exits from the ball, they met again in the docking hallway between the shipyards and the _Aria_. Mason couldn't wait. He pinned her against the very side of the _Aria_ (exposed with the over sized docking seal) and kissed her deeply. She almost whimpered, tilting her head back as Mason grabbed the back of her neck with his hand, aggressively pressing himself against her body. The contrast of the cold steel of the _Aria_ against her back and the powerful warmth of Bishop's body against her front was almost unbearable to Artemis. She grabbed his collar, forcing him off of her. She grabbed his arms, walking backward into the ship and down the familiar pathways to Mason's cabin.

He was growing impatient. In a swift movement, he picked her up, holding her tightly to him. She folded her arms around his neck again, kissing him passionately. He hurried the last few meters to his cabin, his leg strangely offering no protest.

Artemis had never been actually thrown into a room. However, the speed in which Mason set her down suggested that she just had been. She landed gracefully, however, even in heels. She turned, facing him as he locked the door behind them. He turned as well, giving her a look that would have made even a nun a little excited. He slowly removed his gloves, dropping them to the floor haphazardly. She leaned back against his desk, giving him her best "I dare you" look.

He attacked her neck with his mouth, biting her lightly, tasting her skin. She shuddered as his lips traveled down her shoulder and collarbone. His bare hands traced the upper hem of her dress. Her hands slowly began unbuttoning his gray coat.

Mason wasn't so subtle. His hands found their way to her back. He grabbed the hem and ripped the dress completely off her torso. She gasped with shock, silenced quickly by his kiss.

"That was expensive," she said, laying back on his desk as he quickly relieved her of what little garment remained.

"We'll get another one," he growled, allowing the jacket to fall away from him.

She enfolded his hips in her thighs, squeezing hard as she hurriedly assisted him out of his shirts. He began exploring her torso again, caressing her chest and back with his calloused hands. Her heart raced feeling him all over her body at once. She pressed down on the desk, trying to find a handhold to escape the barrage of pleasure - she simply scattered papers and framed pictures all over the floor in a flurry.

Bishop paid no mind. He discarded his boots and pants, his lips tracing lines down her abdomen as he did so. He tasted the inside of her strong, smooth thighs - growing increasingly impatient by the second.

She sensed the animalistic desire raging inside of Mason - she teased him mercilessly as she pushed the toe of her heeled shoe against his chest, pushing him away, making him work for it.

He smirked and almost laughed. If the situation were not so immanently dire, he would have. But at that moment, he was a man of singular vision. He quickly forced his arm under the small of her back, lifting her up off the desk. He placed a hand under her thigh, and turned to the wall - pinning her against it whilst still holding her off the floor.

Before she had time to object, he was inside of her with vehement force. She cried aloud, reaching around him and forcing him closer to her, digging her nails into his strong back as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into her.

Her head spun, her heart racing. Mason breathed heavily, his skin breaking out in perspiration. He lifted her off the wall again, turned toward his bed, and executed the most graceful crash landing their intertwined bodies could muster.

She laughed as they collapsed on the bed. She was prepared now, and quickly forced him into his back. She grabbed his arms, and pinned them to the bed. She backed down the bed slowly, and straddled his hips.

Mason almost struggled against her- and while he was easily able to throw her back beneath him, he relinquished control, letting her keep his arms locked beneath her.

Artemis smiled and agonizingly slowly lowered herself onto him. His eyes closed and muscles tensed with ecstasy. She moved slowly up and down on him, feeling control of her body ebb away from her consciousness.

He, in turn, pushed his hips up into her, the instinctive want to be one with her overwhelming any self-control that remained in his mind.

She looked up towards the ceiling, hyperventilating. Mason took the opportunity, seizing her and throwing her onto her back beneath him again. She didn't care, any remaining thoughts having ceased as she approached the point of no return.

She forcibly freed her arms from Mason's grip, grasping his upper arms with painful force as she screamed. He let out something between a growl and a moan as he thrust into her with finality. Perspiration dripped off of his brow onto her glowing skin. She continued breathing rapidly, sounding almost as though she was weeping. She pulled him to her, wrapping her legs around him and kissing him.

Mason melted into her, running his fingers through her hair and returning her kiss with passion. The endorphin and adrenaline induced high they both experienced was enough to make them both delirious. Their senses were heightened to almost a supernatural state. The sight, feeling, smell, and taste of each other felt almost like the first time they met.

He folded himself behind her, still breathing deeply as exhaustion began to creep in. She laced her fingers in with his, bringing his arm around her body. She held his forearm, feeling her back lock securely into his front. He kissed her shoulder lightly, nuzzling his face in the silk curtain that was her brunette hair.

He heard her sigh, and felt her squeeze his hand. Neither spoke, but the feeling between them was known. Their smiles spoke for themselves as sleep enveloped them.

* * *

Mason's journey to the CIC from his cabin was a very familiar one to him - having made it countless times. It was a little different, though, on that day. Many more people in the corridors smiled and nodded to him. He found it somewhat strange as he filled his coffee cup.

"Good morning, sir," Warrant Officer Steele said, handing him the previous night's memos. He looked a moment longer at the commander, smiling slightly.

He affixed his signatures on the reports, raising an eyebrow at Steele, "Is there something wrong, Mr. Steele?"

"Um, no, sir," Steele sputtered, looking away quickly. He accepted the reports back, "Thank you, sir."

"Right," Mason said, sipping at his coffee. His eyebrows knitted momentarily, wondering why Steele had given him the reports. He quickly reminded himself that Steele was standing in at Tactical Officer since he had promoted Hopkins. The problem with that was that Steele was even younger than Hopkins. While age was simply a number in Mason's opinion, he couldn't help but wonder what others would think walking in to such a young-looking crew running a battlestar.

_The CIC_ _is gonna look like a daycare soon_, he thought, shaking his head slightly. He was glad to be back at work, wearing his normal blue duty uniform for a change. The CIC, as it always had, buzzed with activity as he walked through the doors. He smiled slightly. Normalcy. Or at least as close as it could be.

"Sir," Hopkins nodded to him.

"What do you got, Erik?" Mason asked. This was the only part that was different, and Mason's heart sank slightly. No longer would he be able to ask Emory how the night watch was.

_If I could just ask him that one last time._

"Repairs are coming along nicely, sir," the XO replied. "Outer hull integrity will be at one hundred percent within the week, FTL drive is still down, unknown time on that. Other than that, we're more or less ready to go."

"Good," Mason replied. "Very good. Nice work, Erik."

"Thank you, sir," Hopkins replied, saluting. He gathered his effects and turned to go. "And sir, one more thing."

"Yeah?" Mason asked casually, flipping through a crew manifest update.

Hopkins glanced around the CIC quickly, and lowered his voice, "A lot of people are talking about you and Captain Schaeffer."

"Is that so?" he replied, quietly, careful not to solicit any major reaction to this news. "And what's the talk been?"

The young XO smiled, "simply, sir, most everyone's of the opinion that it's about frakking time."

Mason continued to act as though Hopkins was simply talking about the weather, "And what about you?"

Hopkins was taken aback momentarily, having been asked his opinion on the commander's personal life. He had never been asked that before, "I - uh...sir, I..."

"You're my XO now, Erik, your opinion in _everything_ counts. So tell me, what do you think about it?"

"Honestly, sir," Hopkins said. "If someone were to ask me, I'd say there is no relationship between you two excepting the professional one you share. Unofficially, sir...well, it's about frakking time."

Mason smirked, nodding, "And that's why you're going to do just fine at this job."

"Thank you very much, sir," Hopkins replied, smiling as he made his exit from the CIC.

"Sir?" Forte called to him from comms. "Admiral Nelson."

Mason nodded, pointing to the upper deck of the CIC. He climbed the stairs quickly, noticing that his left leg offered a decreased amount of protest. Progress, however slight.

"Sir," Mason picked up the phone after shooing away the stragglers on the second deck.

_"Hey Scott. Listen, I know I said I'd keep you updated on what they found with the situation on the _Odyssey," Nelson began.

"Yes, sir," the commander acknowledged, leaning on the railing overlooking the combat information center. It appeared deceptively small to an outsider - with many of its corners hidden from a casual glance. The light from Scorpion filtered gently through the solar shielded screen. Whenever it was possible, Mason liked the natural light to shine through in lieu of the deck's artificial lighting. He knew the crew enjoyed working with natural light, even if they didn't offer any protest in its absence.

_"Well, here's the real trick. Those frakkers thought they could skip out on the analysis because of the holiday. So they haven't even started. I wish I had more information for you,"_ Nelson sighed, frustrated. _"Rest assured they're working on it now."_

"I see," Mason mumbled. While it was a side rarely seen from Nelson, he knew that once the Admiral had heard the news that he more than likely went ape-crazy-bonkers on whoever was at fault.

_"So for now, Commander, just keep lying low. I know there's not much the _Aria_ could do now in her state, especially with her FTL guts all over the deck. I'll get back to you tomorrow morning."_

"Sounds good, sir. We'll keep working on getting back in it," Mason said, a feeling of unease suddenly settling over him.

_"Good hunting, Bishop."  
_

* * *

"Rummel, I understand that your knowledge of our FTL is unmatched, but I just can't justify slapping something together right now," Mason said, lying on his back next to a rather filthy Chief Rummel _underneath_ the FTL drive.

Rummel sighed, "I know, sir. It's just an option. We can wait for the part. Can you hand me that dampener wrench?"

Mason was rather proud of himself to know what the dampener wrench actually _was_. He handed it awkwardly to Rummel, who reached up into the FTL and began tightening something.

"It's killing me as much as it is you, Chief, having her laid up in the docks like this, but I'd just as soon have it completely replaced and get back out there," Mason sighed, lacing his fingers together and placing his hands behind his head, examining the complex piping and wiring of the open drive before him.

"I know," Rummel said, his eyes tracing piping back and forth. He furrowed his brow, tapping the dampener wrench lightly against his forehead. "I just can't shake the feeling that we're gonna need this drive up and going."

Mason's eyebrow twitched. So it wasn't just him. He shrugged, however, "It's just not like the _Aria_ to be out of commission like this. We're not used to it, I think."

The Chief considered this a moment, "Yeah, you got a point."

"Anyway, keep me in the loop. You'll do your best, I know," Mason said, wriggling his way out from under the drive.

"Aye, sir," Rummel's muffled voice replied as he stuck his head back into the drive.

Mason dusted off his jacket as he made his way out of engineering. He glanced at his watch, amazed that the day had gone by as fast as it had. He had stayed out of CIC for most of the day, having personally checked on almost every area of the ship that was under repair. It pained him, still, to see many familiar faces from various shops and decks gone. The crew, on the by and large, was making the best of it. They understood that they had been lucky to escape the battle with the _Odyssey_ with as few casualties as they had.

However, as Admiral Schaeffer had put it, close bonds had been formed in the areas of the ship where people were frequently working together. Many of those bonds had been shattered. Mason, perhaps more than anyone, could empathize with some of the saddened looks he saw in his crew. But to sit and dwell on the subject only served to deepen the pain. The general feeling aboard ship was to get back to work - or at least do something to get their mind off their losses.

* * *

_"Revile, Revile, time is seventeen thirty, Battlestar _Aria_ night crew please report to stations in thirty minutes."_

Mason shook his head again at how quickly the day had passed. It seemed like he had only just awoke next to Artemis. He smiled, thinking about her, and that he had promised dinner tonight. He quickened his pace to the CIC - anxious now to get back to his cabin.

* * *

_"Artemis, you're at three clicks, take heading three-five-zero, call the ball."_

"Three-five-zero, Artemis has the ball," she said calmly into the wireless, adjusting her heading slightly with a quick puff of thrusters. She had volunteered the air wing to fly part of the shipyard's CAP while the _Aria _was in port - something that was something of a relief to her and her pilots. They were as anxious as anyone to get back to work - and most important, flying.

She fired her engines for perhaps a second on her new heading with no need to come in with speed. She almost relaxed as she started the final approach. Her mind wandered slightly to the previous evening, a smile spreading slowly across her backlit face.

With skill that only experience could bring, she touched her skids lightly down on the deck of the _Aria_, just after passing the large, emblazoned crest at the entrance of the flight pod. The usual course of the tow back to the flight deck ensued shortly after. Air traffic was relatively light around the _Aria_, making for a speedy turnaround time. She was thankful for that. Admittedly, she was already tired of life at the shipyards. It reminded her a little too strongly of life around Fleet on Caprica. However, since the battle, she had softened to her father's nature. She understood now his concern and love for her - because he understood the nature of warfare. At long last, Artemis could finally relate to him, even if it was just on a small level.

She signed her post-flight checklist hurriedly, handing the clipboard to Parker. Artemis almost laughed, noticing that Parker had calmed down considerably to her presence around the flight deck - in no small part due to the fact that the latest rumor had him paired with a certain young petty officer.

_At least one happy ending after all of this_, she thought. Then, giving consideration to her destination after clearing the flight deck, _well...maybe two.  
_

* * *

"I just can't shake this feeling," Mason said thoughtfully with a mouth full of noodles.

"You're really attractive when you do that, you know," Artemis giggled from across the couch, holding her fold-up box of noodles, meat, and vegetables.

"Am I?" Mason smirked, swallowing.

"_Insanely_," she said, feigning a seductive voice. She laughed again before asking, "Feeling about what?"

"I dunno," Mason shook his head. "I can't be sure of what to think. Maybe it's just all this being in port."

"Oh, please, Bishop," she said. "It's only been a few days. You'll be just fine."

He sighed, setting his box of food down on the table, "I know. I just wish we could get out of here, away from the fleet, away from this place and just go back to how it was."

"You've come a long way since then," she said. "_We've_ come a long ways since then. And that's in a matter of a few weeks."

Mason kept staring to a seemingly faraway spot in the room, silent.

Artemis crawled across the couch and curled up next to him, running a finger along his collar, "I miss him, too. But you've got to start letting him go."

Anger flared inside Mason momentarily that she would suggest such a thing. Emory was _his_ friend, _his_ XO, and _he_ would have the final say in when he was truly gone.

_But he is, Bishop,_ his mind spoke quietly. _And she's right. Again._

"I know," he mumbled. "But it isn't all just that. Maybe it is. I don't even know."

She nuzzled her face against his neck, kissing it lightly. Mason enfolded her in his arms and pulled her in tightly.

"It'll be fine," she said, barely above a whisper. "We'll be fixed probably within a week, right?"

Mason nodded.

"Then I'm sure we'll be off to deal with the next crisis that comes up. I mean, there aren't many battlestars left, Bishop, and you're in command of one of the best," she mused. "I mean, what do you think that poor old man Bill Adama is thinking right about now? His last night to command his ship?"

_Frak_. Mason thought. He had meant to call Commander Adama to congratulate him and wish him well. He'd do it in the morning.

"How is it that you're always right about everything?" Mason said, a smile forming as he kissed the crown of her head.

"Because I'm a better pilot than you," she giggled.

"Oh that's a frak load of bullshit," Mason said, pretending to be outraged. "I let you win. And when we get back out there, I'm gonna have Rummel build me a new bird and I'll show you a thing or two."

Artemis didn't bite. She laughed and punched him playfully in the chest, "You couldn't show me anything I didn't already teach you."

"That's it, Captain, now I'm just gonna have to kick your ass," Mason smiled, grabbing her around her waist and tossing her to the other side of his couch.

She shrieked upon being literally thrown, but found her swagger again, "Bring it, Commander."

Mason, indeed, brought it as he pinned her arms to her sides and kissed her lovingly.

* * *

_"Bishop, you've got one on your six!"_

_Bishop wheeled around in the cockpit of the Mark II Viper - looking desperately around for the new threat._

_"I can't see him!"_

_"I'm almost there!"_

_He snap-rolled the Viper hard - attempting to shake loose whatever was behind him. He stared perhaps a moment too long at the battle raging above the skies of Caprica - at least ten battlestars firing literally everything they had against a clearly superior force of Cylon basestars and raiders. _

_"Hang on, Bishop, I almost have him!"_

_A withering burst of fire from the raider behind him snapped his attention back. Bullets grazed the boxy canopy of the viper - leaving scuff marks on the upper pane of glass. He continued a tight barrel roll, hoping that the raider wouldn't have time to adjust._

_A violent explosion behind him rocked the rear of his viper forward. He paled, thinking he was hit._

_"Gotcha, you frakkin' toaster piece of shit!" screamed the exuberant voice of Emory. _

_Angel pulled alongside Bishop, their wings almost touching._

_"Thanks, Angel," Bishop smiled, looking over momentarily._

_"Anytime!" Angel replied, his face in a wide smile. "Isn't this the greatest shit in the world?"_

_Bishop laughed,"tough to beat."_

_The wireless crackled - "All fighters - this is _Valkyrie_ actual - they're cutting and running! Get after 'em!"_

_Mason's jaw dropped in shock as he saw literally hundreds of raiders stop what they were doing and wheeled around for the now-retreating basestars. _

_"No way!" Angel said, his face a mixture of elation and shock. "Bishop, do you see it?"_

_"I see it! I see it!" Bishop almost screamed, laughing. "Ok! Vigilantes, Demons, Prowlers, all squadrons follow me! Let's slam the frakkin' door on these toasters!"_

_"On you, sir!" Angel roared jubilantly, slamming his throttled forward._

_Bishop did likewise, flying side-by-side with Angel, guns blazing.  
_

* * *

Mason opened his eyes, inhaling deeply. He laid motionless for a moment, savoring the crystal-clear memory he had just relived.

_It's like it was yesterday_.

Artemis stirred slightly, still curled up on him. He was actually surprised both of them had fallen asleep on his couch. He lifted her up off of him gently, setting her back down on the warm leather of his couch. She stirred slightly again, but did not wake. Mason smiled, taking his wrinkled uniform jacket off and laying it over her.

He risked a glance at the clock - 0447.

_Frak._ He sighed, knowing there was no way his mind would allow him to go back to sleep. He actually felt energized - knowing adrenaline was flowing through his veins from the dream. No matter. He would just be a little early to watch - it wouldn't be the first time.

His mind wandered again as the warm water of his shower ran down his back. While it was a treasured memory of his - the last battle of the first cylon war - it was one that had escaped him of late. He smiled, remembering as the fleet cut the retreating enemy to shreads as they jumped away in desperation. He remembered the celebrations afterward, dousing his pilots in champagne and being doused in return - the elation of victory enough to make them feel intoxicated.

_We were still drunk for days after, though..._

He picked a fresh uniform from his closet, dressed quietly, as not to wake Artemis, and crept out the door.

* * *

"Commander, you're up early," Hopkins remarked as Mason walked into a quiet CIC. "Happy Colonial Day."

"And to you, Erik," Mason nodded, sipping coffee. "What's new?"

"Well our FTL drive part left Caprica yesterday evening - it should be here sometime tomorrow - apparently we're the last stop for that freighter."

"Naturally," the commander muttered.

Hopkins nodded, "And most of the outer hull repair work is nearing completion. Probably tomorrow as well. We should be getting some crew replacements late today - mostly from the _Galactica_, I think, after the ceremony is finished."

Mason leaned against the nav table and stared out the solar shield. Being in geosynchronous orbit with Scorpion, the shipyards experienced night and day just as the surface of the planet would. It was just before dawn, and rays of light were beginning to creep around the curvature of the planet, casting odd beams of light here and there.

"It's a shame about the _Galactica_...that's a tough old ship," Mason mused, talking mostly to himself. "Just another battlestar gone away now..."

"Yes, sir," Hopkins agreed, his attention down towards watch memos.

A quiet tone was followed by the usual, _"Revile, Revile, time is zero-five-thirty, Battlestar _Aria_ day crew report to stations in thirty minutes. Happy Colonial Day to all crew."_

"Erik, if you want to take off early, you can," Mason said, smiling slightly.

"Aye, sir, you have the conn," Hopkins saluted, looking happy at the thought of going to bed early.

* * *

Artemis almost growled at the revile wake-up call. She stirred, mildly surprised that Mason wasn't there. Sitting up, she noticed the blue jacket with commander's insignia on top of her.

_Went to work early, then._

She smiled, grasping the coat in her hands. She snuck a glance around the cabin like a schoolgirl about to get caught, and took a deep breath of the fabric, savoring the scent of soap, leather, and his cologne.

Forcing back the desire to go back to sleep with his jacket around her, she rose and made her way discretely to the senior officer's quarters for a quick shower before dashing off to the ready room.

* * *

"Ok, guys, here we go," she announced as she walked into the room. By now, most of the pilots were used to her showing up _almost_ late to briefing. They all knew where she was spending her nights - and yet no one said a word about it. If the truth were to be known, the pilots were actually thankful for this. It was alot easier to work for a CAG that was happy.

"Gonna be standard CAPs today, make sure you keep an ear to the wireless for the _Galactica_'s decommissioning ceremony a little later this morning - remember there's reduced staffing on CAPs, three per flight, two Vipers and a Raptor, I'll take the one this morning..."

_"Aria_, Artemis, request launch clearance, port side number three for CAP," Artemis called as she finished her start-up checks.

_"Roger, Artemis, port side number three is yours - take heading two-seven-seven for three clicks, CAP is yours after, speed at your discretion, good day."_

"Roger, _Aria_, two-seven-seven for three, speed is mine," she replied. Just prior to launch from the ship, she accessed her wireless through her dradis console, and punched in the colonial talk wireless frequency. She hit "scan," gave the thumbs-up and salute, and was launched.

* * *

"Sir," Forte said in the direction of Mason.

Mason, thankful for at least something that demanded his attention, turned, "Is it time?"

"Yes, sir," Forte replied, knowing Mason was referring to the ceremony.

"On speakers, please, Mr. Forte," the commander said, turning his attention back to his fifth mug of coffee for the morning. Frankly, at dry dock, there wasn't much the commander needed to attend to while on watch. Much of the work being done did not require his knowledge or approval. Mason was restless at this. He was used to handling about three things at any given time at once. Now he just stood on the deck of the CIC, bored out of his mind.

_"This is Colonial Talk Wireless radio - we're pleased to be coming to you live from the Colonial Fleet Battlestar _Galactica_ on this momentous occasion. Indeed, a very happy Colonial Day to you all out there..."_

Mason sighed, sipping his coffee and looking out the solar shield.

_"...where the Commander of the _Galactica_, William Adama, will be making his remarks here within the coming moments...I see now that Secretary of Education Laura Roslin has arrived for the ceremony..."  
_

* * *

Artemis cruised slowly around the shipyards, taking her time. She wasn't necessarily "patrolling" to the fullest extent of the word. She was more or less just flying. Burning tyllium, as pilots would say. The talk wireless was the only thing that was making any noise today.

_"...I'd like to thank you all for being here, again, today, Admiral Schaeffer, thank you very much for those wonderful words..."_

She smirked, having listened to her father's speech just previously. It was one of his boxed ones, she could tell. Full of the usual duty, honor, sacrifice, and privilege.

_"...next is a ceremonial flyby by _Galactica's_ squadron, lead by Captain Lee Adama..."_

The Colonial Anthem started up hazily in the background.

"Psh, Apollo, what a little crybaby," she muttered to herself.

_"...and now it is my great pleasure to introduce the last commander of the Battlestar _Galactica_, Commander Adama."  
_

* * *

Mason, now on his seventh cup of coffee, leaned back against the table - his leg bouncing up and down.

"Well let's hear what Bill has to say," Mason said quietly. The crew leaned back from their consoles momentarily to take in the speech.

_"...the Cylon war is now over, but let us not forget the reason so many sacrificed so much in the cause of freedom..."_

_"The cost of wearing the uniform...can be high. But..."_

Mason looked down at his feet as the silence dragged on.

_"...sometimes it's too high."_

_Well, Bill, you really know how to set the tone_, Mason thought. He listened on as Adama spoke of why the human race even deserved salvation in the midst of their imperfections. Mason raised an eyebrow. This wasn't a decommissioning speech. It sounded more like a sermon.

_"...we decided to play God. And when that life turned against us, we comforted ourselves with the thought that it wasn't really our fault. Not really."  
_

* * *

Artemis turned slowly at the edge of the patrol boundery, back towards the shipyards.

_What the frak is this old man talking about?_

_"...you can't hide from the things that you've done anymore."_

Silence prevailed on the wireless before a slow smattering of applause began aboard the _Galactica_. She flipped the wireless off of scan, back to _Aria_ tactical.

_That was really frakking odd,_ she thought. _He must be losing it in his old age._

A blip on her dradis caught her attention.

* * *

Mason stood in rather stunned silence in the CIC. No one spoke.

"Well," the commander broke the silence after a moment's more consideration. "Adama's right, you know."

"Sir?" Steele asked from tactical. "Could you elaborate?"

"We have a lot to own up to, as a race," Mason said. "For the things that we subject ourselves to, despite our advances in the world of technology, science, and knowledge. We still do evil things. Such as turn on our own."

The CIC crew sat quietly as Mason strode slowly to the solar shielded window.

"It was almost too easy," the commander said, his voice loud enough to just only be heard. "When we defeated them the first time and declared armestice. But we didn't let them retreat with dignity, no..."

"We chased them as they retreated from Caprica, and shot down the stragglers. Is it human? Yes, I think so, to do that...but is it right? That, I think, is a question we'll have to answer when it comes time for us to be judged before the gods," he finished, quietly.

"So say we all..." someone said quietly. Several others said it quietly, in turn.

_"Dradis contact!"_ Steele roared from tactical.

* * *

Artemis blinked and examined her dradis. It looked as though an entire line of red had appeared out of nowhere.

_What the frak..._

She rolled a hard six, deciding, as most pilots would have, to have a look for herself. Her face drained of color.

"Seven - no, thirteen - sir, multiple contacts! Big ones! Dradis...my gods...Sir! Multiple Cylon Basestars just jumped in!"

_"Radiological Alarm!"_

Mason's blood froze as he wheeled around, looking intently at the dradis. It showed a sea of red contacts - all of them spewing out countless smaller contacts.

"Basestars launching...Cylon Raiders? There's hundreds!"

"Action stations!" Mason bellowed. "Emergency breakaway from the shipyards! Launch every single viper we can!"

_"Action stations! Action stations! Set condition one throughout the ship - this is not a drill! Action stations!"_

"Multiple warheads! Inbound with speed! Thirty seconds!" Steele called.

Hopkins sprinted into the CIC, having forgotten his uniform jacket. His mouth opened with horror when he looked at the dradis.

"Wide defensive spread on the batteries! Give the shipyards some room! Fire control, salvo fire at first opportunity!" Mason cried above the din. "Helm! Bring us about! One-nine-zero degrees and ahead full, give us all you got!"

The _Aria_ broke away from the dry dock violently, severing the docking cables and port connections. The first rounds from the basestars impacted the shipyards as the _Aria_ began moving slowly, painfully away.

Quite suddenly, the lights dimmed and the dradis screens momentarily scrambled. It was fleeting, however. The dradis readouts and lights came back as though nothing happened. Mason barely noticed it as he bellowed orders.

"Sir!" Forte called from comms. "Hopkins! Saylors is on the phone, says it's urgent!"

"XO," Hopkins said, snatching up a handset.

_"Sir, you need to destroy the networking server right the frak now!"_

"What?" Hopkins asked, confused as to why Saylors would be demanding the destruction of the ship's network.

_"Erik, just trust me and shoot the frakking thing!"_

"Saylors, I -"

_"DO IT NOW!"_

Hopkins dropped the phone and drew his sidearm in one swift motion. Aiming for the networking boxes just below the nav table, he unleashed his entire magazine.

* * *

Artemis narrowed her eyes. She saw at least twenty squadrons - if not more - of something she thought to be Raiders launching from the Basestars. She had never seen one in person - only in museums, textbooks, and film at the war college.

_There's no way. There's no possible way._

She made the decision. There would be no fighting individual fighters to fighters. The battle, statistically, was already lost. Her goal now was to inflict as much damage as possible before making a run for it.

She slammed her throttle forward, her mind ready. She picked out the nearest basestar, and looked for an opening through the barrage of missiles and raiders making their way towards her with haste.

_Come on, get me something..._

Instead, her Mark VII Viper suddenly went dead in her hands.

"What the frak?" she whispered, terror setting in. The fighter floated aimlessly - now a sitting duck.

Her hands frantically flew over the controls, attempting a hard-boot up of the dradis. Nothing. She attempted a manual override start.

Nothing.

She looked upwards again, seeing a red, shifting eye of a raider lock onto her. The raider fired without a second thought.

Artemis sat in her viper, stunned. The missile closed quickly.

"Bishop," she whispered.

* * *

Mason stood in horror as he watched his Executive Officer destroy the network.

"Emory. Place your weapon on the deck and step away," he said, coldly. Artillery fire rocked the ship.

"Sir, if I may, please speak to Warrant Officer Saylors on the line," Hopkins trembled, pointing to the handset.

Mason glared at him. However, he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He picked up the handset, "Saylors. This is the commander. Please tell me there's a reason for this."

_"Sir! It's a virus! A computer virus! The networks are going nuts! None of the Vipers can fly! We're fish in a barrel!"_

He dropped the handset, thinking with remarkable clarity. A virus that would have spread to his networked computers on the ship would have meant imminent disaster. No controls, nothing. Erik had just bought them more time.

"Hopkins. You may have just saved us all. Return to your post," he said.

"Aye, sir," Hopkins finally breathed again before sprinting over to fire control.

Mason paused.

_None of the Vipers can fly._

The Mark VII Viper, as Mason knew well, was entirely fly-by-wire computer controlled. Any tampering with the computer spelled...

_Artemis._

He wheeled around to O'Reilly, who was bracing herself against her console.

"O'Reilly, where's the CAP?" Mason bellowed.

"Sir, I - I can't be sure! There's so many contacts!" she yelled in reply.

"Find Artemis!" he barked. Over his shoulder, he yelled, "Helm! Ahead full! Get us out of here!"

"Sir! I - I can't find the CAP!" O'Reilly's voice softened. "They're gone."

Mason stood, in complete shock. The noise of the CIC slowly faded around him.

_She's gone._

"Sir!" a distant voice called.

_Artemis._

"Sir!"

Mason's heart skipped what felt like five beats before plummeting into his stomach. He turned slowly toward the person yelling at him. It was Hopkins.

"Commander! What are your orders?" Hopkins roared.

"Fix firing solution for the closest six basestars. Fire the nuclear weapons," Mason growled, his voice dark.

Hopkins had never seen the commander in this state in the two years serving with him. He almost felt fear in his presence. He replied, however, "Aye, sir, nuclear weapon launch!"

Mason turned again to speak with Steele, until a direct impact on the spine of the _Aria_ knocked those standing off their feet.

"Nuclear weapon impact, sir!" Steele sputtered, picking himself up. "And...the _Pegasus_ has jumped away!"

"Damage report!" Mason yelled.

"Engineering reports fatal damage to FTL and main engines! Multiple casualties! Over half the decks are venting, sir!"

_"Incoming!"_

Two more missiles slammed into the _Aria_ - expertly aimed at her bow and stern. Fire, debris, bodies, and countless other objects vented with force into space.

Mason lost his footing again and struck his face against the side of the nav table, mercifully losing consciousness.

* * *

_Mason opened his eyes. He was standing in the CIC. An empty CIC, to be precise._

_He looked around. No crewmen manned the consoles, no voices were heard. It was the direct inverse of the scene of chaos he had just remembered._

_"Hello?" Mason called, striding around the deck slowly. His uniform wasn't dirty, as it had been just a second ago. No alarms, no smoke in the air, no cries of pain. Just...an empty CIC._

_"Hey," said a voice. Mason wheeled around._

_"Garrett?" he asked, in disbelief. Emory stood with his arms folded, leaning against the nav table. They were the only two in the CIC._

_"Yep," he nodded. "Me."_

_"What the frak is going on?" Mason begged, confused. _

_"Well, obviously this isn't real, because I'm dead," Emory shrugged. "But, you do have a situation on your hands."_

_"Yeah," Mason sighed, still wondering where he was._

_"What're you gonna do about it?"_

_Mason paused, at a loss, "What do you think?"_

_Emory smiled, reaching into his pocket for his can of fumella leaves. He placed a small amount under his lip, clicking the can closed with a swift movement and depositing it back into his pocket, "Well, there isn't much, is there? Superior enemy force, you can't launch the birds, your computer is frakked..."_

_"We're frakked, then," Mason said, thoughtfully. "It's over."_

_Emory nodded, slowly, "It's over. Now it's simply a matter of how graceful your exit is."_

_"You always told it like it was," Mason relented, looking into Emory's eyes._

_Emory laughed, "You'll do fine, Scott. I'll see you soon, ok?"_

_"Ok," Mason replied, embracing Emory tightly. "Thanks, Garrett, for this."_

_"Of course," he said, gripping Mason's shoulders and smiling at him. He began to slowly fade away._

_"Oh, and Bishop...I'm glad it worked out between you and her."  
_

* * *

Mason slowly placed his hands underneath his chest and pushed up off the deck. Acrid smoke filled the air and pained cries echoed around the CIC. Light fixtures hung from the ceiling, flickering. Environmental control hoses spewed gasses carelessly. What few screens were working offered little information. The _Aria_ creaked and groaned under the constant barrage of fire.

The commander saw his own blood drip steadily onto the floor of the CIC from somewhere above his brow, however he wasn't concerned. A sense of placidity had come over him, even though he had a difficult time maintaining his balance.

"Hopkins!" he called.

"Sir! The XO is dead!" Steele called back to him. Mason saw the body of Hopkins lying near fire control, a handset still in his hand. He looked around slowly, the only people moving being being helmsman Carver, Forte, and Steele.

"Mr. Steele, all hands are to abandon ship and make a run for it," Mason staggered over to fire control, wiping his blood of his hands. He manually finished the firing solutions for the warheads.

"Aye, sir, all hands to abandon ship!" Steele yelled. Forte ran over to the nav table, issuing the order over the first working handset he could find.

"Sir!" Steele yelled to Mason.

"Yeah!" Mason replied, entering his pass code for the weapon launch.

"Request permission to stay aboard, sir!" the warrant officer called.

Mason looked at him, blinking blood out of his eyes and coughing in the smoke.

"Myself as well, sir!" Carver called from the helm, where he was still desperately wrestling with the controls.

"I'm not going anywhere, either, sir!" Forte yelled as he joined him on fire control, trying vainly to keep the batteries firing.

Mason almost smiled, nodding, "It's been an honor, gentlemen."

"It's been ours, sir!" Carver coughed through the smoke, flying the ship only by line of sight through the solar shield.

"Carver, drive us closer to the basestars," Mason called, the acrid smoke stinging his lungs.

"Aye, sir, going in!"

Mason felt his way along the wall of the CIC towards the solar shield, his head swimming.

"Port launch pod is gone, sir! Atmospheric controls failing," Forte said, his voice softening.

The commander nodded, finding his way to just behind Carver's chair. A Cylon artillery shell found its lucky way to the solar shield - bouncing off of it and exploding, forming a large crack in the glass.

The _Aria_, still charging forward toward the looming force of basestars, began breaking apart in larger and larger pieces. Fires spewed out of almost every surface, with explosions rocketing outward from under the hull every few seconds.

Behind the dying battlestar, the shipyards were suffering the same fate. Missiles continued to rain in, combined with punishing artillery fire and strafing runs being made by the raiders on anything left untouched. It was a perfect, machine-precise victory.

In the CIC, Mason struggled to stay on his feet as his vision blurred. He knew the oxygen level was dropping quickly. It would be over soon.

He opened his mouth to say something, but found he couldn't speak. His hearing slowly was fading to a soft white noise. The acrid smell of the smoke was gone. He dropped to his knees as the structural integrity of the bow of the ship failed and broke apart.

Instantly, basestars began to close on the _Aria_ to finish their task.

Mason's last vision as the solar shield was ripped away was that of his warheads, fired seemingly away from the fray earlier, coming directly down onto his ship. Their simultaneous explosions rocked the basestars that had gathered around the _Aria_ - ripping their hulls open as they were scattered.

Commander Scott Mason smirked, and closed his eyes.

* * *

When he finally dared himself to open his eyes, Mason again found himself standing alone. He was back on Tauron, his home colony. He blinked a few times in the bright sunlight. He was standing in an open field - and before him was a single, white door.

He looked suddenly to his left. Artemis was standing there, smiling radiantly.

Mason smiled in return, and took her hand.

* * *

This story is dedicated to the memories of MDA and AJL - two men who fought bravely until the last. Fair winds and following seas, guys. We'll see one another again.

Reader, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming along for this ride. With this being my first fan fiction, I didn't quite know what to expect or where I was going with it. Your subscriptions and reviews made all the difference and encouraged me to keep writing and to finish the story. Thank you, again. I hope you found it to be an entertaining story, and worth the time you invested.


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